338- 


THE  BLACK  WOLF  PACK 


It  was  a  shadowy  figure  yet  it  moved 


[  Page  96 


THE 
BLACK  WOLF  PACK 

BY 

DAN  BEARD 

RATIONAL   SCOUT   COMMI38IONEB,    B.8.A. 

'>,'••        •                    ,«  t    •  oo 

'       >>',>>        >    >                     '        '    >  ' 

,', 

ILLUSTRATED 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  B* 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  BOYS'  LIFE 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


All  rights  reserved.  No  part  of  this  book 
may  be  reproduced  in  any  form  without 
the  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


DEDICATED  TO 
BELMORE  AND  FRED 

(BELMORE  BROWNE)  (FREDERICK  K.  VREELAND) 

NO  BETTER  WILDERNESS  MEN  EVER 
WORE  MOCCASINS 


M53738 


PREFACE 

After  numerous  visits  to  a  number  of  re 
mote  and  unfrequented  places  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  from  Wyoming  to  Alberta,  the 
writer  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  awesome 
mystery  of  the  wilderness  and  the  weird 
legends  he  heard  around  the  camp  fires, 
while  the  bigness  of  the  things  he  saw  was 
photographed  on  his  brain  so  distinctly  and 
permanently  as  to  act  as  a  compelling  force 
causing  him,  aye,  almost  forcing  him  to  write 
about  it. 

When  the  spell  came  upon  him,  like  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  he  needs  must  tell  the  story, 
and  thus  the  tale  of  the  Black  Wolf  Pack  was 
written  with  no  thought,  at  the  time,  of 
publishing  the  narrative,  but  primarily  for 
the  real  enjoyment  the  author  derived  from 
writing  it,  and  also  for  the  entertainment  of 
the  author's  family  and  intimate  friends. 

vii 


viii  Preface 

The  tale,  however,  pleased  the  members  of 
the  Editorial  Board  of  the  Boy  Scouts  of 
America,  and  Mr.  Franklin  K.  Mathiews, 
Chief  Scout  Librarian,  asked  permission  to 
have  it  edited  for  the  Scout  Magazine,  which 
request  was  cheerfully  granted. 

The  author  hereby  freely  and  cheerfully 
acknowledges  the  useful  changes  and  practical 
suggestions  injected  into  the  story  by  his 
friend  and  associate,  Mr.  Irving  Crump, 
Editor  of  Boys'  Life,  in  which  magazine  the 
Black  Wolf  Pack,  in  somewhat  abbreviated 

form,  first  appeared. 

DAN  BEARD. 
Flushing, 
June  ist,  1922. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

It  was  a  shadowy  figure  yet  it  moved       .      .  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  eagle  screamed,  descended  like  a  thunderbolt 
.  .  .  and  struck  the  bull 36 

More  than  once  while  I  clung  to  the  chance  projec 
tion  ...  I  regretted  making  the  fool-hardy  at 
tempt  92 

"I  think  the  name  'Pluto'  fits  his  character  to  a 
nicety" 192 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

CHAPTER  I 

It  was  a  terrible  shock  to  me  (said  the 
Scoutmaster  as  he  fingered  a  beaded  buckskin 
bag).  Old  Blink  Broosmore  was  respon 
sible.  It  was  a  malicious  thing  for  him  to  do. 
He  meant  it  to  be  mean,  too, — wanted  to 
hurt  me, — to  wound  my  feelings  and  make 
me  ashamed.  And  all  because  he  nursed  a 
grudge  against  dad — I  mean  Mr.  Crawford. 

It  started  because  of  that  defective  spark 
plug  in  the  engine  of  the  roadster.  Strange 
what  a  tiny  thing  such  as  a  crack  in  a  porcelain 
jacket  around  an  old  spark-plug  can  do  in  the 
way  of  changing  the  course  of  a  fellow's  whole 
life. 

My  last  period  in  the  afternoon  at  high 
school  was  a  study  period  and  I  cut  it  because 


2          The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

I  had  several  things  to  do  down  town.  I 
hurried  home  and  took  the  roadster,  and  on 
my  way  out  mother^-I  mean  Mrs.  Crawford — 
gave  me  an  armful  of  books  to  return  to  the 
library  and  a  list  of  errands  she  wanted  me  to 
do.  While  motoring  down  town  I  noticed 
that  one  cylinder  was  missing  occasionally 
and  I  told  myself  I  would  change  that  spark 
plug  as  soon  as  I  got  home. 

I  made  all  the  stops  I  had  planned  and 
even  drove  around  to  the  church  because  I 
wanted  to  look  in  at  the  parish  house  where 
some  of  my  scouts  (I  was  the  assistant  scout 
master  of  Troop  6,  of  Marlborough)  were 
putting  up  decorations  for  the  very  first 
Fathers  and  Sons  dinner  ever  given  which  we 
were  to  have  on  Washington's  birthday. 
That  was  in  1911. 

As  I  was  leaving  I  looked  at  my  new  wrist 
watch  and  discovered  that  it  was  a  quarter 
of  five. 

"Just  in  time  to  catch  dad  and  drive  him 
home  from  the  office/'  I  said  to  myself,  for 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack          S 

I  knew  that  he  left  the  office  of  his  big  paper- 
mill  down  at  the  docks  at  five  o'clock. 

I  jumped  into  the  car  and  bowled  along 
down  Spring  Street  and  the  Front  Street  hill 
and  arrived  at  the  mill  office  at  exactly  five. 
Dad  wasn't  in  sight  so  I  decided  to  turn  around 
and  wait  for  him  at  the  curb.  That  is  how 
the  trouble  started.  I  got  part  way  around 
on  the  hill  when  that  cylinder  began  missing 
a  lot  and  next  thing  I  knew  the  motor  stalled 
and  there  was  I  with  my  car  crosswise  on  the 
hill,  blocking  traffic — and  traffic  is  heavy  on 
Front  Street  hill  about  five  o'clock,  because 
all  the  mills  are  rushing  their  trucks  down  to 
the  piers  with  the  last  loads  of  merchandise 
before  the  down-river  boats  leave,  at  six 
o'clock. 

In  about  two  minutes  I  was  holding  up  a 
line  of  trucks  a  block  long  and  those  drivers 
were  saying  a  lot  of  things  that  were  not  very 
complimentary  to  me  and  not  printed  in 
Sunday-school  papers.  And  old  Blink  Broos- 
more  was  right  up  at  the  head  of  the  line 


4          The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

with  a  truck  load  of  cases  from  the  box  factory 
and  the  look  on  his  face  was  about  as  ugly 
as  a  mud  turtle's.  Then,  to  make  matters 
worse,  my  starter  wouldn't  work  at  the 
critical  moment,  and  I  had  to  get  out  to  crank 
the  engine.  What  a  howl  of  indignation  went 
up  from  those  stalled  truck  drivers!  I  felt 
like  a  bad  two-cent  piece  in  a  drawer  full  of 
five-dollar  gold  pieces.  Guess  my  face  was 
red  behind  my  ears. 

And  then  old  Blink  made  the  unkindest 
remark  of  all — no,  he  didn't  make  it  to  me; 
he  just  yelled  it  out  to  a  couple  of  other  truck- 
drivers. 

"That's  what  happens  with  these  make- 
believe  dudes,"  he  shouted.  "That's  the 
kid  old  Skin  Flint  Crawford  took  o_t  of  an 
orphan  asylum.  He's  a  kid  that  old 
Crawford  took  up  with  because  he  was  too 
mean  t'  have  t'  Lord  bless  him  with  one  o* 
his  own.  That's  straight,  fellers.  I  was 
Crawford's  gardener  when  it  happened  an ' — " 

Old  Blink  stopped  and  got  red  and  then 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack          5 

white,  and  I  could  see  the  other  truck  men 
looking  uncomfortable.  I  looked  up  and 
there  was  Dad  Crawford  on  the  curb  boring 
holes  into  Blink  with  those  cold  gray  eyes  of 
his  and  looking  as  white  as  marble.  No  one 
said  a  word.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  street 
became  hushed  and  silent.  I  got  the  car 
around  to  the  curb  somehow  and  dad  got  in 
and  the  line  of  trucks  trundled  by  with  every 
driver  looking  straight  ahead  and  some  of 
them  grinning  nervously  and  apparently  feel 
ing  mighty  uncomfortable. 

But  that  wasn't  a  patch  to  the  way  I  felt, 
and  I  could  see  by  the  lack  of  color  and  set 
expression  of  dad's  face  and  the  way  he  stared 
straight  ahead  of  him  without  saying  a  word 
that  he  was  feeling  very  unhappy  about  it  too. 
There  was  something  behind  it  all — something 
that  raised  in  my  mind  vague  doubts  and 
very  unpleasant  thoughts. 

Dad  never  spoke  a  word  all  the  way  home, 
and,  needless  to  say,  I  did  not  either — I 
couldn't;  my  whole  world  seemed  to  have  been 


6          The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

turned  upside  down  in  the  space  of  half  an 
hour.  Was  it  true  that  I  was  not  Donald 
Crawford?  Was  it  possible  that  Alexander 
Crawford,  this  fine,  big,  broad-shouldered, 
kindly  man  beside  me  was  not  my  real  father? 
Was  it  a  fact  that  that  noble,  generous,  happy 
woman  whom  I  called  mamma  was  not  my 
mother  at  all?  Each  of  those  questions  took 
shape  in  my  mind  and  each  was  like  a  stab 
in  the  heart,  for  Blink  Broosmore  had  answered 
them  all,  and  Alexander  Crawford,  though  he 
must  know  how  anxious  I  was  to  have  Blink 
denied,  did  not  speak  to  refute  him. 

We  rolled  up  the  drive  and  dad  stepped 
out,  still  silent,  but  he  did  smile  wistfully  at 
me  as  he  closed  the  car  door. 

"  Put  it  away,  Don,  and  hurry  in  for  dinner," 
he  said  and  I  felt  certain  I  detected  a  break 
in  his  voice.  I  felt  sorry — sorry  for  him  and 
sorry  for  myself,  and  as  I  put  the  car  in  the 
garage,  I  had  a  hard  time  trying  to  see  things 
clearly;  my  eyes  would  get  blurred  and  a  lump 
would  get  into  my  throat  in  spite  of  me. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack          7 

As  I  dressed  for  dinner  I  felt  half  dazed. 
I  hardly  realized  what  I  was  doing,  and  I  had 
to  stop  and  pull  myself  together  before  I 
started  downstairs  to  the  dining  room,  for 
I  knew  if  I  did  not  have  myself  well  in  hand  I 
would  blubber  like  a  big  chump. 

Mother  and  dad  were  waiting  for  me  and 
I  could  see  by  mother's  sad  expression  and 
the  troubled  look  in  her  eyes  that  dad  had 
told  her  of  the  whole  occurrence.  And  that 
only  added  to  my  unhappiness  because  I 
felt  for  a  certainty  that  all  that  Blink  Broos- 
more  had  shouted  must  be  true. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  memory  dad 
forgot  to  say  grace,  and  none  of  us  ate  with 
any  apparent  relish  and  none  of  us  tried  to 
make  conversation.  It  was  a  painful  sort  of 
a  meal  and  I  wanted  to  have  it  over  with  as  soon 
as  I  could.  It  seemed  hours  before  Nora 
cleared  the  table  and  served  dad's  demi-tasse. 

I  guess  I  then  looked  him  full  in  the  <eyes 
for  the  first  time  since  the  occurrence  on 
Front  Street. 


8          The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"That  was  a  very  unkind  thing  for  Blink 
Broosmore  to  do/'  said  dad,  and  I  knew  by 
the  firmness  and  evenness  of  his  voice  that 
he  had  gained  full  control  of  his  feelings. 

"Is — is — oh,  did  he  tell  the  truth,  dad?" 
I  gulped  helplessly  and  for  the  life  of  me  I 
could  not  keep  back  the  tears. 

"Unfortunately,  Donald,  there  is  just 
enough  truth  in  it  to  make  it  hurt,"  said  dad 
and  I  could  see  mother  wince  as  if  she  had 
been  struck,  and  turn  away  her  face. 

"They  why— why?  Oh!  who  am  I?"  I 
cried,  for  the  whole  thing  had  completely 
unnerved  me. 

"Don  dear,  we  do  not  know  to  a  certainty," 
said  mother  struggling  with  her  emotions. 

"  But  now  that  you  are  partly  aware  of  the 
situation,  I  think  there  is  a  way  you  can  find 
out,  at  least  as  much  as  we  know,"  said  dad, 
getting  up  and  going  into  the  library. 

Through  the  doorway  I  could  see  him 
fumbling  at  the  safe  that  he  kept  there  beside 
the  desk.  Presently  he  drew  out  a  battered 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack          9 

and  dented  red  tin  box  and  a  bundle  of  papers. 
These  he  brought  into  the  dining  room  and 
laid  on  the  table.  Then  he  drew  up  a  chair, 
cleared  his  throat,  rather  loudly  it  seemed  to 
me,  and  began. 

"Don,  we  always  wanted  a  child,  and  why 
the  Lord  never  blessed  us  with  one  of  our  own 
we  do  not  know.  Anyway,  we  wanted  one 
so  badly  that  we  decided  to  adopt  one.  That 
was  seventeen  years  ago,  wasn't  it,  mother?" 

Mother  nodded. 

"Doctor  Raymond,  the  physician  at  the 
county  institution,  knew  our  desires  and, 
being  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  he  volun 
teered  to  find  us  a  good  healthy  baby  that  we 
could  adopt  and  call  our  own.  Not  a  week 
later  you  appeared  on  the  scene.  Dr.  Ray 
mond  told  us  that  a  wagon  drawn  by  a  raw- 
boned  horse,  and  loaded  with  household 
goods,  drew  up  to  the  orphanage  and  a  tired 
and  worn-out  looking  old  lady  got  out  with  a 
lusty  year  old  child  in  one  arm  and  this  box 
and  these  papers  under  the  other. 


10         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"At  the  office  of  the  asylum  she  explained 
how  she  and  her  husband  were  moving  from 
a  Connecticut  town  to  a  little  farm  they  had 
bought  in  Pennsylvania.  Somewhere  at  a 
crossroad  near  Derby,  Connecticut,  they  had 
found  the  baby  and  this  box  and  bundle  of 
papers  in  a  basket  under  a  bush  with  a  card 
attached  to  the  basket  requesting  that  the 
finder  adopt  and  take  care  of  the  baby. 

"Of  course,  they  could  not  pass  the  infant 
by,  but  the  woman  explained  that  they  were 
too  poor  and  too  old  to  adopt  the  child  so  they 
had  gone  miles  out  of  their  way  to  find  an 
orphanage  and  leave  the  baby  there,  along 
with  the  box  and  papers. 

"When  Dr.  Raymond  heard  the  story  and 
saw  you,  for  you  were  the  baby,  he  got  me  on 
the  telephone  and  told  me  all  about  you. 
And  that  night  he  brought  you  here,  and 
you  were  such  a  chubby,  bright,  interesting 
little  fellow  that  mother  and  I  fell  in  love  with 
you  immediately  and  decided  to  adopt  you, 
which  we  did  according  to  law.  So  you  are 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         11 

our  legal  child,  Don,  and  all  that,  although 
we  are  not  your  real  parents." 

Somehow  that  made  me  feel  a  little  happier. 
Dad  and  mother  did  have  a  claim  on  me  at 
least.  That  was  something. 

"It  was  not  until  after  Dr.  Ravmond  had 
left/'  went  on  father,  "that  n  other  and 
I  examined  the  box  and  papers  tha .  had  come 
with  you.  Here  they  are." 

Dad  took  up  a  worn  and  age-yellowed  enve 
lope  addressed  in  a  bold  hand: 

To  the  Finder 

Inside  was  the  following  brief  message; 
To  THE  FINDER: — 

The  mother  of  this  child,  Donald  Mullen, 
is  dead.  I,  his  father,  cannot  give  him  the 
care  he  should  have.  Will  you,  the  finder, 
adopt  him,  care  for  him,  and  bring  him  up  to 
be  an  honest,  trustworthy  man,  and  win  the 
eternal  gratitude  of  his  dead  mother  and 
DONALD  MULLEN, 

his  father. 

"Then  my  name  is — or  was  Mullen,"  I 
exclaimed. 


12         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"According  to  that,"  said  dad  softly,  "but 
when  you  became  our  son  we  kept  your  first 
name  and  discarded  the  family  name  of 


course." 


"  But — but  what  has  become  of  my  father, 
Donald  Mullen?"  I  asked. 

"  My  be  fy  we  have  tried  both  for  your  sake 
and  for  our  own  to  find  out.  We  have  fol 
lowed  up  and  searched  every  possible  clue 
and — but  wait,  here  are  other  papers  of 
interest  and  after  you  have  read  them  I  will 
tell  you  all  we  have  done  to  locate  your  real 
father  and  afterwards  we  will  talk  the  whole 
situation  over."  As  dad  was  speaking  he 
passed  over  the  battered  tin  box.  On  the 
lid  was  inscribed  the  simple  lines — 

The  contents  of  this  box  belong  to  the  boy. 
If  you  are  honest  you  will  see  that  it  comes 
into  his  hands  at  the  proper  time.  If  you 
are  dishonest,  then  God  help  the  boy  and 
God  help  you! 

D.  MULLEN. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  could  make  up 
my  mind  to  force  the  lid.  When  I  did  the 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         13 

first  thing  that  my  eyes  fell  upon  was  this 
buckskin  bag  of  unmistakable  Indian  design, 
beautifully  decorated  with  bead  work  and 
highly  colored  porcupine  quills  cunningly 
worked  into  a  good  luck  design.  As  I  picked 
up  the  bag  I  saw  that  it  was  sealed  with  wax 
and  to  it  was  attached  a  card  on  which  was 
penned: 
To  my  son : — 

Here  is  all  the  wealth  I  possess.  It  isn't 
much.  The  bag  with  its  contents  was  sent 
to  me  by  my  brother.  Fay,  who  is  out  in  the 
Rockies.  He  gave  it  to  me  to  pay  my 
expenses  out  there  to  join  him.  I  am  leaving 
it  for  you.  It  may  help  you  over  some  rocky 
places  if  it  ever  gets  into  your  hands,  and  I 
trust  the  good  Lord  that  it  does. 
Lovingly, 

YOUR  FATHER. 

The  bag  gave  forth  the  unmistakable  clink 
of  gold  coins  as  I  dropped  it  on  the  table. 

That  message  from  my  father,  whom  I  had 
never  seen,  made  my  heart  heavy  and  again 
that  lump  gathered  in  my  throat,  for  I  could 


14         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

feel  the  heartaches  that  the  writing  of  that 
note  must  have  caused  him.  I  had  not  the 
courage  to  break  the  seal  of  the  bag  and 
examine  its  contents.  I  pushed  it  aside  and 
took  from  the  box  another  time-yellowed 
envelope  addressed  to 

MY  SON  DONALD 
Inside  I  found  the  following: 
Dear  Boy: — 

I  cannot  determine  whether  I  am  giving  you 
a  mean  deal  or  whether  this  is  all  for  your 
good.  Your  mother,  Barbara  Parker  Mullen, 
is  dead,  God  bless  her!  She  has  been  dead 
now  six  months.  It  seems  to  me  like  eternity. 
I  have  tried  to  take  care  of  you  as  she  would 
have  cared  for  you  but  I  am  afraid  I  have  lost 
heart,  and  my  courage,  and  I  am  afraid  my 
faith  has  slipped  from  me.  I  fear  that  I  am 
a  broken-spirited  failure.  The  passing  of 
your  mother  has  taken  everything  from  me. 
I  am  no  longer  fit  or  able  to  care  for  you  and 
I  must  pass  you  on  to  someone  else  and  trust 
your  welfare  to  God.  For  neither  your  mother 
nor  I  have  any  relatives  left  who  are  able  to 
take  care  of  you. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         15 

What  will  become  of  you  I  cannot  guess. 
I  can  only  hope  for  the  best.  But  by  the 
time  you  are  old  enough  to  read  and  under 
stand  this  message  you  will,  I  hope,  have 
forgiven  me  or  praised  me  for  my  effort  to 
find  you  a  home. 

What  will  become  of  me  I  do  not  know. 
I  have  one  brother  left  in  the  world,  Fay 
Mullen,  and  he  is  out  in  Piute  Pass  in  the 
Rockies  grubbing  ifor  gold.  I  am  going  out 
to  join  him  for  I  know  the  only  way  I  can 
forget  my  grief  and  get  hold  of  myself  once 
more  is  to  bury  myself  in  the  wilderness. 

Fay  has  sent  me  a  bag  of  double  eagles  to 
pay  my  expenses  west.  That  is  all  the 
money  I  have  in  the  world.  I  am  not  going 
to  use  it.  I  will  work  my  way  west  and  leave 
the  gold  for  you.  It  is  the  least  and  probably 
the  last  that  I  can  do  for  you. 

If,  when  you  read  this  you  have  any  desires 
to  know  who  you  really  are,  I  will  leave  you 
the  following  information: 

Your  mother,  a  wonderful  woman,  was 
Barbara  Parker  of  Litchfield,  Connecticut, 
daughter  of  Judge  Arnold  Parker  of  Litch 
field,  now  deceased.  I  am  Donald  Mullen, 
the  eldest  of  three  brothers;  Fay  Mullen  is 


16         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

the  next  of  age  and  Patrick  Mullen,  the  gun 
smith  of  Maiden  Lane,  New  York,  is  the 
youngest.  We  were  born  in  Byron  Bridge, 
Ireland,  and  we  three  came  to  this  country 
after  our  parents  died.  You  come  of  an 
honest,  worthwhile  people  on  my  side,  and  of 
the  best  American  blood  on  your  mother's, 
Donald,  and  I  ask  only  that  you  live  an  honest, 
honorable  life  and  have  faith  in  your  country 
and  your  God,  and  He  will  be  with  you  to  the 
end. 

Good-bye,  boy. 

Lovingly, 

YOUR  FATHER. 

I  read  the  letter  aloud  but  I  confess  that 
my  voice  broke  toward  the  end  and  I  choked 
up  until  reading  was  difficult. 

For  some  time  after  I  finished,  we  three  sat 
in  silence.  The  thoughts  and  mental  pictures 
of  that  broken  man  parting  with  his  baby  son 
seventeen  years  before  made  me  most  unhappy. 

Dad  broke  the  silence. 

"Well,  now  you  are  acquainted  with  the 
whole  situation,  what  do  you  think?" 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         17 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  think/'  said  I. 
"It  does  not  appear  natural  for  a  man  to 
abandon  his  own  son  in  the  manner  he  did. 
It  seems  heartless  and  cruel.  I  cannot  under 
stand  it;  yet  I  wish  I  could  see  my  poor 
father.  I  wonder  if  he  is  still  alive.  Certainly 
with  the*  information  at  hand  it  should  not 
be  impossible  for  me  to  trace  him  or  some 
relatives  of  my  mother.  Don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"That  is  what  I  thought,  Don,  for  when 
you  were  three  years  old  I  began  to  wonder 
about  your  father's  whereabouts.  I  wanted 
to  meet  him  and  perhaps  help  him  if  I  could. 
Do  not  think  that  your  poor  father  was  cruel, 
for  it  is  evident  that  the  man  was  suffering 
from  a  nervous  breakdown  and  consequently 
more  or  less  irresponsible;  I  think  he  acted 
wonderfully  well  under  the  circumstances. 
In  order  to  help  him  I  began  a  search  and  for 
ten  years  I  have  had  detectives  and  private 
individuals  following  up  every  possible  lead. 
Yet,  with  all  my  efforts,  the  search  has 
amounted  to  nothing.  Your  father's  trail 


18         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

ended  at  a  Spokane  outfitting  store.  I  could 
not  locate  anyone  nearer  to  you  than  an  old 
maiden  great-aunt  of  your  mother's  although 
I  have  had  every  clue  investigated. 

"The  only  relative  of  your  father's  that 
I  could  get  any  information  about  was  his 
youngest  brother,  Patrick  Mullen,  your  uncle 
and  a  famous  gunsmith  of  Maiden  Lane, 
New  York.  He  is  dead  now  but  his  reputation 
for  making  an  exceptionally  fine  hand-forged 
gun  lives  on  even  to-day.  Patrick  Mullen 
died  just  before  I  began  my  search  for  your 
father,  but  in  digging  around  for  facts  about 
him,  I  learned  that  he  had  made  a  limited 
number  of  very  fine  guns,  on  each  of  which  he 
had  stamped  his  full  name,  cPatrick  Mullen/ 
Other  guns  of  an  inferior  quality  that  he  made 
bore  the  simple  stamp  of  'P.  Mullen.'  The 
old  man  was  very  proud  of  each  'Patrick 
Mullen '  that  he  turned  out  and  like  the  true 
artist  that  he  was  he  kept  track  of  each  one, 
sold  them  only  to  men  he  knew  and  when  the 
owner  died  he  bought  the  gun  back  himself  so 
that  he  always  knew  its  whereabouts. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         19 

"In  that  way  all  of  the  101  'Patrick 
Mullen's'  he  made  came  back  to  him,  save 
one.  There  is  one  of  the  complete  number  still 
missing  and  no  one  seems  to  know  where  it  is. 
This  is  more  remarkable  because  the  missing 
gun  is  a  flint-lock  rifle  of  the  style  of  seventy 
years  ago.  That  gun  has  always  struck  me  as 
being  a  valuable  clue  in  our  search,  because  it 
is  the  only  rifle  ever  made  by  the  old  gunsmith 
and  I  have  a  feeling  that  that  missing  'Patrick 
Mullen'  may  have  been  given  to  your  father 
by  the  brother,  and  that  may  account  for 
the  fact  that  among  the  papers  of  Patrick 
Mullen  there  is  no  record  of  its  whereabouts; 
this  is  in  a  measure  confirmed  by  the  report 
that  the  man  outfitting  at  Spokane  had  a  long 
old-fashioned  rifle,  and  collectors  say  there 
used  to  be  an  expert  in  antique  arms  by  the 
name  of  Mullen." 

The  suggestion  made  me  tremendously 
excited.  Beyond  a  doubt  in  my  mind  that 
missing  "Patrick  Mullen"  was  my  father's 
gun.  I  imagined  him  parting  with  everything 
else  save  the  unique  gun  his  famous  brother 


20         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

had  made  for  him.  Why  he  should  wish  for  a 
flint-lock  rifle  was  an  unanswerable  question, 
but  someone  wanted  that  sort  of  a  gun  or  it 
would  not  have  been  made,  and  my  father's 
letters  showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  sentiment, 
and  impractical,  just  the  sort  of  fellow  to  use  a 
flint-lock  when  he  might  just  as  well  have 
had  a  modern  breech-loading  high-power  rifle. 

"I  believe  you've  hit  it,  dad.  Hot  dog!" 
I  exclaimed.  "Bet  a  cookie  that  that  gun 
does  belong  to  my  father  and  if  we  can  find  it 
we  will  probably  find  him  too — would  not  that 
be  bully?" 

"I  feel  the  same  way  too,  Don.  But 
finding  that  missing  gun  will  be  as  difficult 
as  finding  your  father.  I  have  searched  the 
country  over  for  it  and  made  a  wonderful 
collection  of  flint-lock  guns,  as  you  see  by 
looking  at  yonder  gun-rack;  I  have  had 
dozens  of  arms  collectors  and  detectives 
looking  for  guns  of  that  description,  but  no 
Patrick  Mullen  rifle  has  turned  up  anywhere. 
There  have,  of  course,  been  many  false  clues 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         21 

and  many  queer  rifles  offered  to  me  and  I 
have  put  a  great  many  thousands  of  dollars 
into  the  search,  and  my  collection  of  flint 
locks  is  the  best  in  the  land,  Don.  But  .so 
far  nothing  but  failures  seem  to  have  rewarded 
my  search — no,  I'm  wrong,  there  is  one  man 
out  west — out  in  the  little  jerk-water  town  of 
Grave  Stone,  who  insists  that  there  is  a  wild 
man  living  in  a  lonely,  almost  inaccessible 
valley  in  the  mountains,  who  shoots  a  gun 
which  looks  like  the  one  for  which  I  am  search 
ing.  For  a  number  of  years  this  man  of 
mystery,  it  seems,  has  been  appearing  and 
reappearing,  according  to  Big  Pete  Darlinkel, 
my  informant,  but  even  Pete  has  never  got  in 
personal  touch  with  this  eccentric  hermit. 
Neither  have  several  detectives  I  have  sent 
out  there  for  that  purpose.  The  detectives 
seem  to  be  all  right  in  towns  or  cities  and  are 
undoubtedly  brave  men,  but  something  out 
there  appears  to  frighten  them  and  they  lose 
interest  the  moment  they  cut  the  trail  of  the 
wild  hunter.  I  begin  to  think  this  wild  man 


22        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

is  a  myth,  too.  Strange,  though,  that  just  a 
week  ago  I  received  another  letter  from  Pete 
Darlinkel.  Wait,  I'll  find  it." 

He  returned  from  the  library  presently  with 
a  letter  which  he  opened  and  passed  over  to 
me.  It  read: 

DEAR  MR.  CRAWFORD: — 

Maybe  you  hain't  interested  no  more  but 
thet  tha'  ole  Dopped  ganger,  the  Wild 
Hunter,  the  spooky  old  critter,  has  been  seen 
agin,  i  wuz  on  the  top  of  the  painted  Butte 
yesterday  squinten  one  i  in  the  valley  look'n 
for  elk  and  look'n  up  with  tother  i  for 
Big  horn  on  the  mountain,  when  i  staged  the 
old  duffer  snoop'en  along  in  one  of  the  parks 
an '  he  had  the  same  long  hair  and  long  rifle 
he  uster  have.  He  sure  is  a  ghost  or  else 
he's  a  nut  or  an  old  timer  gone  locoed.  He 
sends  the  chills  down  my  backbone  every 
time  i  sots  my  eyes  on  him. 

Your  obedients  sarvent, 

BIG  PETE. 

There  was  something  about  that  crude 
letter  that  stirred  me  deeply. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         23 

Could  this  strange  freak  that  Big  Pete  saw 
from  the  top  of  the  painted  Butte  possess  that 
Patrick  Mullen  rifle?  If  so  did  he  know  any 
thing  about  the  whereabouts  of  my  father? 
It  is  not  uncommon  for  people  suffering  from 
a  mental  breakdown  to  flee  to  the  country 
or  wilderness  and  there  live  the  life  of  a 
recluse,  and  from  my  father's  last  letter  it 
was  evident  that  he  had  had  a  nervous  break 
down  from  anxiety  and  brooding  over  the  loss 
of  my  mother,  to  whom  he  evidently  was 
devotedly  attached.  'It  might,  therefore,  be 
possible  that  this  strange,  wild  man  himself 
was  my  father,  an  unpleasant  possibility. 
At  any  rate,  I  felt  that  I  could  not  rest,  at 
least  until  I  discovered  to  a  certainty  the 
name  of  the  maker  of  the  long  rifle  said  to  be 
carried  by  the  wild  hunter  and  I  tola  dad  just 
how  I  felt  about  it. 

"I  knew  you  would  feel  that  way,  son," 
said  he.  "I  have  often  wanted  to  go  west 
for  the  very  same  purpose  and  I  knew  that 
when  I  told  you  everything  you  would  want  to 


24         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

go  too.  I  intended  to  lay  all  the  facts  before 
you  when  you  were  twenty-one  but  now  that 
Blink  Broosmore  has  taken  it  upon  himself  to 
inform  you  and  his  truck-driving  friends  of 
the  mystery  surrounding  your  real  parentage, 
I  guess  it  is  best  you  know  all  there  is  to  be 
known  about  the  situation.  The  rest  I'll 
leave  to  you.  In  fact,  it  would  please  me  a 
great  deal  if  you  would  run  down  this  last 
vague  clue  to  see  if  your  father  really  is  still 
alive.  Go,  Donald,  and  God  bless  you,  and 
take  that  bag  of  gold  with  you,  unopened, 
for  it  may  now  stand  your  father  in  good  stead, 
and  if  you  do  find  him,  bring  him  here  and  I 
promise  you  he  will  never  want  for  a  thing, 
nor  will  you,  my  son,  for  you  are  still  my  boy 
whatever  your  real  parentage  may  be." 


CHAPTER  II 

The  stage  pulled  up  in  front  of  a  typical 
western  saloon,  post  office  and  general  store. 
There  was  the  usual  crowd  of  prospectors, 
gamblers,  cow  punchers  and  trappers  as 
sembled  to  meet  the  incoming  stage.  When 
I  scrambled  off  the  top  of  the  old-fashioned 
coach,  and  before  I  had  time  to  shake  the 
alkali  dust  from  my  clothes,  or  moisten  my 
dry  and  cracked  lips,  a  typical  western  bully 
approached  me  roaring  the  verses  of  a  song 
with  which  he  evidently  intended  to  terrify  me, 

"He  blowed  into  Lanigan  swinging  a  gun 

A  new  one, 

A  blue  one, 

A  colt's  forty-one, 

An'  swearing 

Declaring 

Red  Rivers  'ud  run 

Down  Alkali  Valley, 

25 


26         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

An'  oceans  of  gore 
'ud  wash  sudden  death 
On  the  sage  brush  shore, 
An'  he  shot  a  big  hole — " 

He  got  no  further  with  the  song.  Another 
man  stepped  out  from  the  crowd,  a  very 
tall,  powerful  man  who  would  have  attracted 
attention  in  any  garb  in  any  place  by  his 
distinguished  appearance,  who  with  little  cere 
mony  rudely  brushed  the  roughneck  to  one  side, 
and  my  instinct  told  me  the  handsome 
stranger  could  be  no  other  than  Big  Pete 
Darlinkel. 

My!  my!  what  a  man  he  was!  Looked  as  if 
he  just  stepped  out  of  one  of  Fred  Reming 
ton's  pictures,  or  Buffalo  Bill's  Wild  West 
Show,  or  slipped  from  between  the  leaves 
of  a  volume  of  Captain  Mayne  Reid's 
"Scalp  Hunters" — Big  Pete  was  evidently  a 
hold-over  from  another  age.  He  would  have 
fitted  perfectly  and  with  nicety  in  a  picture 
of  Davy  Crockett's  men  down  in  old  Texas. 
He  seemed,  however,  perfectly  at  home  in  this 
border  town,  and  I  noted  that  the  most  hard- 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         27 

boiled  and  toughest  men  in  the  crowd  treated 
him  with  marked  respect  and  deference. 

Pete  was  a  wilderness  fop  and  a  dandy,  and 
evidently  was  as  careful  of  his  clothes  as  a 
West  Point  cadet.  In  dress  he  affected  the 
old-fashioned  picturesque  garb  of  the  moun 
tains.  His  appearance  filled  me  with  wonder 
and  admiration;  he  stood  six  feet  two  or 
three  inches  in  his  moccasins,  straight  as  an 
arrow  and  lithe  as  a  cat. 

His  costume  consisted  of  a  tunic  of  dressed 
deer  skin,  smoked  to  the  softness  of  the 
finest  flannels.  He  wore  it  belted  in  at  the 
waist,  but  open  at  the  breast  and  throat 
where  it  fell  back  like  a  sailor's  collar  into  a 
short  cape  covering  the  shoulders.  Under 
neath  was  the  undershirt  of  dressed  fawn  skin; 
his  leggins  and  moccasins  were  of  the  same 
material  as  his  hunting  shirt,  and  on  his  head 
he  wore  a  fox  skin  cap;  the  fox's  head  adorned 
with  glass  eyes  ornamented  the  front  and  the 
tail  hung  like  a  drooping  plume  over  the  left 
shoulder. 


28         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

Big  Pete  Darlinkel  was  a  blonde,  and  his 
golden  hair  hung  in  sunny  curls  upon  his 
massive  shoulders;  a  light  mustache,  soft  yel 
low  beard,  with  a  pair  of  the  deepest,  clearest, 
most  innocent  baby-like  blue  eyes,  all  made  a 
face  such  as  an  angel  might  have  after  years  of 
exposure  to  sun  and  wind. 

Not  only  are  Big  Pete's  revolvers  gold 
mounted,  but  the  shaft  of  his  keen-edged 
knife  is  rich  with  figures,  rings,  and  stars 
filed  from  gold  coins  and  set  in  the  horn. 
The  very  stock  of  his  long,  single-barreled 
rifle  is  inlaid  like  an  Arab's  gun,  and,  as  for 
his  buckskin  hunting  suit,  it  is  a  mass  of 
embroidery  and  colored  quills  from  his  beaded 
moccasins  to  the  fringed  cape  of  his  shirt. 

Big  Pete  was  a  dandy,  fond  of  color,  fond  of 
display;  yet  in  spite  of  all  this  he  wore  abso 
lutely  nothing  for  decoration  alone,  but  every 
article  of  use  about  his  person  was  orna 
mented  to  an  oriental  degree.  Gaudy  and 
rich  as  his  costume  was  when  viewed  in  detail, 
as  a  whole  it  harmonized  not  only  with  Pete, 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         29 

his  hair,  his  complexion,  his  weapons,  but 
with  whatever  natural  objects  surrounded  him. 

Big  Pete  also  seemed  to  know  me  instinc 
tively  and  approached  with  a  graceful  and 
swinging  step;  holding  out  his  hand  he  greeted 
me  in  a  low,  soft,  well-modulated  voice  with, 
"Howdy,  kid;  yes,  I'm  Big  Pete  and  allow  you 
are  the  tenderfoot  dude  from  New  York 
what  wants  to  shoot  big  game,  an'  reckon 
you'd  like  to  meet  the  wild  mountain  man? 
Well,  he's  a  queer  one,  I  tell  you.  He's  got 
us  all  buffaloed  out  this-a-way,  most  of  us 
don't  care  to  meet  him  close  up  and  we  give 
him  wide  range  when  we  cut  his  trail." 

That  was  Big  Pete's  greeting.  Of  course, 
I  had  not  told  him  of  my  real  interest  in  this 
mysterious  man  of  the  mountains,  only  sug 
gesting  that  I  would  like  to  do  some  big  game 
shooting  and  see  the  spooky  hunter. 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "I  would  like  to  get  a 
record  elk  head  to  take  home  to  dad.  As  for 
the  mountain  wildman,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
more  about  him,  he  is  awfully  interesting." 


30         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"Tell  you  more?  Well,  sho,  I  reckon  I  can 
tell  you  more  than  most  people  round  these 
parts  for  he  makes  my  game  park  his  stampin' 
grounds  every  onct  in  a  while,  an'  let  me  tell 
you  he  hunts  some  peculiar,  he  do,  he's  half 
man  and  half  wolf — but  shucks,  I  won't  spoil 
the  show,  you  will  see  how  he  hunts  for  your 
self  if  you  stay  here  long.  Glory  be,  but  he's 
got  me  some  bashful  and  shy.  But  mosey 
along  and  I'll  hist  yore  stuff  on  this  here 
cayuse  while  you  let  them  tha'  dogs  out  of 
their  chicken  coop  boxes.  You  can  cache 
your  dude  duds  in  the  Emporium  general  store 
over  yonder  next  to  Squinty  Quinn's  saloon, 
an'  then  we're  off  for  the  hills.  I'll  yarn  about 
this  Wild  Hunter  while  we  hit  the  trail." 

An  hour  spent  in  Grave  Stone  gave  me  an 
opportunity  to  wash  myself  and  change  my 
clothes  for  some  that  would  be  more  substan 
tial  for  out-of-door  wear,  start  several  letters 
east  telling  of  my  safe  arrival,  buy  the  things 
I  had  overlooked,  store  my  surplus  clothes 
with  the  postmaster  at  the  general  store,  and 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        31 

repack  my  kit  for  pony  travel.  Then,  after 
watching  Big  Pete  skilfully  throw  the  diamond 
hitch,  we  were  off  for  the  hills  and  our  first 
camp.  I  hoped  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  find 
my  real  father  and  unravel  the  mystery  that 
surrounded  my  strange  babyhood.  But  I 
little  guessed  what  adventures  I  was  to  have 
or  the  strange  things  I  was  to  see  before  my 
quest  was  ended. 

We  traveled  fast  all  the  remaining  portion 
of  the  afternoon  and  toward  evening  we  made 
camp  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  slept 
under  the  sky.  At  the  end  of  the  fifth  day 
we  reached  the  secret  and  narrow  opening  of 
a  big  valley  or  "park"  in  the  midst  of  a  wild 
tumble  of  mountains.  Big  Pete  said  we 
would  pitch  our  tent  in  the  park. 

"Tha's  plenty  of  signs  'round  too  an'  if  we 
loosen  t'  dogs  p'raps  we  kin  stir  up  a  mountain 
lion  or  collar  some  fresh  meat  t'  start  camp 
with/'  said  he  as  he  slid  off  his  horse  and  took 
the  leashes  off  the  dogs. 

It  took  us  but  a  short  time  to  arrange  our 


32         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

camp,  then  Big  Pete  followed  by  the  frisking 
dogs  slipped  silently  into  the  woods.  He  was 
gone  scarcely  a  quarter  of  an  hour  when  he 
reappeared  again  without  the  dogs,  motioned 
for  me  to  get  my  gun  and  follow  him. 

"Tha's  elk  signs  all  bout,"  he  said,  "an' 
the  muts  broke  away  on  a  fresh  trail.  Now 
you  an'  me'll  climb  through  that  draw  yonder 
and  hide  out  on  the  runway  till  they  drive  an 
elk  in  gun  shot.  Come  along." 

I  followed  eagerly  and  presently  we  had 
climbed  through  a  thickly  grown  poplar 
grove  and  found  a  suitable  hiding  place  among 
the  small  poplars.  We  had  the  wind  right 
and  a  clear  view  of  most  of  the  open  park. 
Big  Pete  stooped  down  and  motioned  for  me 
to  do  likewise. 

I  quietly  crouched  beside  him  and  waited— 
waited  until  my  legs  were  cramped,  waited 
until  the  dampness  from  the  moss  struck 
through  the  heavy  soles  of  my  tenderfoot 
shoes  and  chilled  my  feet;  waited  until  my 
arm  was  so  numb  that  it  felt  like  a  piece  of 
lead — then,  in  spite  of  the  danger  of  incurring 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         33 

Big  Pete's  displeasure  and  in  spite  of  my 
dread  of  being  thought  a  dude  tenderfoot, 
I  changed  my  position,  rubbed  life  into  my 
arm  and  assumed  an  easier  pose. 

In  front  of  us  was  a  small  lake,  deep,  dark 
and  unruffled.  All  around  the  edge  was  a 
natural  wharf  formed  from  the  gigantic  trunks 
of  trees  which  had  fallen  for  ages  into  the  lake 
and  been  washed  by  wind  and  waves  and 
forced  by  winter  ice  into  such  regular  order 
and  position  along  the  shore  that  their  ar 
rangement  looked  like  the  work  of  men. 
Back  of  this  wharf  and  all  about  was  the  wil 
derness  of  silent  wood;  a  wilderness  enclosed 
by  a  wall  of  mountains,  whose  lofty  heads 
were  uplifted  far  above  the  soft  white  clouds 
that  floated  in  the  blue  sky  overhead  and 
were  mirrored  in  the  lake  below.  An  eagle, 
on  apparently  immovable  wings,  soared  over 
the  lake  in  spiral  course.  As  I  watched  the 
bird  its  wings  seemed  suddenly  endowed  with 
life.  At  the  same  instant  my  guide  gave  alow 
grunt  of  warning. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  in  a  whisper,  for  there 


34         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

was  a  strange  expression  in  my  companion's 
eyes. 

"It's — it's  him,  so  help  me! — Keep  yer  ears 
open  and  yer  meat-trap  shut!"  growled  Pete. 

I  did  so.  The  trained  ear  of  the  hunter  had 
detected  the  sound  of  crackling  twigs  and  swish 
ing  branches  made  by  some  animals  in  rapid 
morion. 

"Ah!"  I  exclaimed,  "the  dogs.  You 
startled  me;  I  thought  it  was  Indians." 

"I  wish  it  was  nothing  wuss,"  muttered  my 
guide,  as  he  examined  his  weapons  with  a 
critical  eye  and  loosened  the  cartridges  for 
his  revolvers  in  his  belt  to  make  sure  that 
they  would  be  easy  to  pluck  out. 

"Those  hain't  our  dogs,  mister,"  he  remarked 
after  he  had  examined  his  whole  arsenal. 

As  I  again  fixed  my  attention  on  the  noise, 
in  place  of  the  resonant  voice  of  the  hounds, 
I  heard  nothing  but  the  crackling  of  branches, 
with  an  occasional  half-suppressed  wolf-like 
yelp. 

Big  Pete  turned  pale  and  muttered,  "It's 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         35 

them  for  sartin;  it's  them  agin!  And  I  hain't 
been  drinkin',  nuther!" 

Big  Pete  Darlinkel  remained  crouching  in 
exactly  the  same  pose  he  had  first  assumed, 
but  his  face  looked  sallow  and  worn.  I  mar 
veled.  Was  this  big  westerner  really  awed 
by  the  situation  we  were  facing?  What  dis 
aster  impended? 

My  guide's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  an  opening 
in  the  woods  and  I  knew  that  something  would 
soon  bound  from  that  spot.  I  could  hear  the 
crashing  of  brush  and  half-suppressed  wolf- 
like  yelps,  followed  by  a  pause,  then  a  rushing 
noise,  and  out  leaped  as  beautiful  a  bull  elk 
as  I  had  ever  seen — in  fact  the  first  I  had  ever 
seen  at  close  range  in  his  native  wilderness. 
I  had  only  time  to  take  note  of  his  muscular 
neck,  clean  cut  limbs,  his  grand  branching 
antlers,  and — not  my  dogs  but  a  pack  of 
immense  black  wolves  at  his  heels  before  I 
instinctively  brought  my  gun  to  my  shoulder. 
But  before  I  could  draw  a  bead  Big  Pete 
struck  it,  knocking  the  muzzle  up. 


36         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"Hist!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  bird. 

The  eagle  screamed,  descended  like  a  thun 
derbolt  and  skilfully  avoiding  the  branching 
antlers,  struck  thebull,  driving  one  talon  into 
the  neck  and  the  other  into  the  back,  flapping 
its  huge  wings  as  it  tore  with  its  beak  at  the 
body  of  the  elk  like  a  trained  "bear  coote" 

I  was  thunderstruck.  The  evident  partner 
ship  of  the  wolves  and  bird  needed  explana 
tion  and  it  was  not  long  in  coming.  A  shrill 
whistle  pierced  the  air,  the  black  wolves 
immediately  ceased  to  worry  the  elk,  the  eagle 
soared  overhead,  and  for  an  instant  the  elk 
stood  confused,  then  leaped  high  in  the  air  and 
fell  dead.  The  next  moment  I  heard  the 
crack  of  a  rifle  and  saw  a  pufF  of  blue  smoke 
across  the  lake. 

"  That's  no  ghost,"  I  said,  when  partly  re 
covered  from  my  astonishment. 

"Wait,"  said  Pete  laconically. 

Not  long  afterward  there  was  a  movement 
among  the  wolves  and,  noiselessly  as  a  panther 
the  figure  of  a  man  lithe  and  youthful  in  every 


The  eagle  screamed,  descended  like  a  thunderbolt 
the  bull 


.  and  struck 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        37 

movement  slipped  to  the  side  of  the  dead  elk. 
He  made  no  noise,  uttered  no  word  to  the 
fierce  black  animals  that  sat  with  their  red 
tongues  hanging  from  their  panting  jaws,  but 
without  a  moment's  hesitation  whipped  out  a 
knife  and  with  a  dexterity  and  skill  that 
brought  the  color  to  Big  Pete's  face,  proceeded 
to  take  the  coat  off  the  wapiti,  while  the  great 
eagle  perched  upon  the  branching  antlers. 
The  skin  was  removed  and  with  equal  dex 
terity  all  the  best  parts  of  the  meat  were 
skilfully  detached  and  packed  in  the  green 
hide,  after  which,  removing  a  large  slice  of 
red  flesh,  the  strange  hunter  held  up  one 
finger.  One  of  the  wolves  gravely  walked  up 
to  him,  received  the  morsel,  gulped  it  down 
and  retired.  Each  in  turn  was  fed,  then  the 
great  bird  flopped  on  his  shoulder  and  was  fed 
from  his  hand,  and  before  I  could  realize  what 
had  happened  the  man,  the  wolves  and  the 
eagle  had  disappeared,  leaving  nothing  but 
the  dismembered  carcass  of  the  elk  to  remind 
us  of  the  strange  episode. 


CHAPTER  III 

To  say  that  the  whole  spectacle  that  I  had 
just  witnessed  startled  me  would  be  stating  it 
mildly  indeed.  The  strange  appearance  of  this 
big,  powerful,  smooth  shaven  man  in  a  buck 
skin  hunting  costume  with  a  retinue  of  black 
wolves  and  a  trained  eagle,  the  mysterious 
manner  of  his  hunting  and  his  coming  and 
going,  aroused  in  me  great  interest  and  curios 
ity  and  I  could  realize  the  effect  it  evidently 
had  upon  Big  Pete's  superstitious  mind  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  big  fellow  was 
accustomed  to  facing  almost  any  sort  of 
danger.  As  for  me,  I  could  not  myself  prevent 
the  creeping  chills  from  running  down  my 
spine  whenever  I  thought  of  the  wild  man. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  this  strange, 
half-wild  man  of  the  mountains,  this  killer, 
this  master  of  a  wolf  pack,  could  be  in  any 
way  connected  with  my  father?  I  wondered, 

38 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        39 

and  as  I  wondered  I  found  that  a  vague  fear 
of  this  mad  man  who  despite  his  reputed  age 
seemed  as  youthful  and  as  agile  as  a  man  in 
his  thirties,  was  gripping  me.  Perhaps  the 
strangeness  of  the  wilderness  park  added  to 
my  awe,  for  certainly  one  could  expect  almost 
anything  supernatural  to  happen  in  the  twi 
light  of  the  forest  of  giant  trees,  whose 
interlacing  branches  overhead  shut  out  the 
light  of  heaven. 

Recovering  somewhat  from  my  astonish 
ment  and  surprise,  I  realized  that  what  I  had 
witnessed,  strange  though  it  appeared,  was 
not  a  supernatural  occurrence.  I  knew  that 
it  was  a  real  gun  I  had  heard,  real  smoke  I 
had  seen,  real  man,  real  bird,  real  elk,  and 
real  wolves. 

"But,  Pete,"  I  exclaimed,  as  a  sudden 
thought  struck  me,  "what's  become  of  our 
dogs?" 

"Better  ask  them  black  fiends  up  the  moun 
tains.  I  reckon  you  won't  see  them  tha' 
hounds  of  yours  agin." 


40         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

And  I  never  did,  but  having  hunted  the 
wolf  with  cowboys  and  having  been  a  witness 
to  their  extraordinary  biting  power,  I  knew 
the  fate  that  must  necessarily  befall  a  couple 
of  ordinary  hounds  when  overtaken  by  half 
a  dozen  full-grown  wolves.  On  such  occasions 
we  do  not  spend  much  time  in  grief  over  a  loss 
of  any  kind,  "it  taint  according  to  mountain 
law,"  Pete  would  say. 

"Reckon  we  had  better  swipe  some  of  that 
elk  before  the  coyotes  get  at  it/'  growled 
Pete.  "The  wild  mountainman  knows  the 
good  parts,  but  an  elk  is  an  elk,  and  one  wild 
man,  even  if  he  is  a  giant,  can't  carry  off  all 
the  good  meat,  not  by  a  long  shot." 

"He  may  come  back,"  I  suggested. 

"Not  he,"  said  Pete.  "He's  too  stuck  up 
for  that.  When  he  wants  more,  them  tha' 
black  demons  and  that  voodoo  bird  of  his'n 
will  get  'em  for  him,  and  he's  a  hanging  his 
long  legs  off'ner  a  rock  some  whar  smoking  a 
long  cigar." 

"Dod    rot    him/'    growled    Pete.     "Why 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         41 

couldn't  he  leave  a  piece  of  hide  to  carry  the 
meat  in  and  the  stomach  to  cook  it  in? 
That's  the  fust  time  I  ever  stayed  long 
'nough  to  see  him  collar  his  meat,  though 
they  say  he  do  eat  the  game  raw,  but  I 
reckon  that's  a  lie,  leastwise  he  didn't  do't 
this  time." 

With  a  good  square  meal  of  the  locoed 
hunter's  elk  under  our  belts  and  a  rousing 
camp  fire  before  which  to  toast  our  shins, 
both  the  big  westerner  and  I  felt  a  little  more 
natural  and  comfortable,  but  our  conversation 
turned  again  to  this  wild  hunter  of  the  moun 
tains. 

I  could  see  that  the  mysterious  old  man  with 
his  wolf  pack  and  eagle  aroused  almost  every 
possible  form  of  superstition  in  Big  Pete  and 
I  confess  that  I  was  not  free  from  some  of  it 
myself.  The  guide  was  certain  that  the  man 
was  either  a  ghost  or  a  reincarnated  devil, 
and  he  displayed  no  uncertain  signs  of  awe. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Pete,  "he's  a  devil. 
He's  over  a  hundred  years  old,  for  my  dad 


42         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

says  he  seed  him,  an'  an  Injun  before  dad's 
time  told  him  about  him.  They  are  all 
skeered  t'  death  o'  him.  An'  I  don't  blame 
'em.  He's  a  shore  enough  hant  and  them 
tha'  houn's  o'  his'n  is  devils  in  wolf  skins. 
Jumping  Gehoosaphats,  ef  they  shed  ever  cut 
my  trail  I  reckon  Yd  just  lay  right  down  an' 
die/'  and  Big  Pete  actually  shuddered  at  the 
possibility. 

"Why,  young  feller,"  he  went  on,  "that  ol' 
man  shoots  gold  bullets  out  o'  a  real  Patrick 
Mullen  gun." 

"A  Mullen  gun,  Pete? "I  cried, "how  do  you 
know,  man;  speak  for  goodness  sake!" 

"I  don't  know  it's  a  Patrick  Mullen  and 
guess  it  tain't  one  'cause  a  Patrick  Mullen 
rifle  would  cost  a  thousand  or  more.  But 
the  old  Injun,  Beaver  Tail,  says,  someone 
told  his  father  and  his  father  told  him  that  et 
is  a  Patrick  Mullen  gun  an'  is  a  special  make 
inlaid  with  gold  and  silver,  an'  all  ornamented 
up,  an'  built  for  an  ol'  muzzle-loadin '  flint 
lock.  Now  Mullen  never  made  no  flint-lock 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         43 

rifles  that  I  hear'n  tell  of,  his  specialty  be 
shotguns  an'  if  he  made  this  rifle  I'm  gander- 
plucked  if  I  cud  tell  how  this  spook  got  it." 

"Unless  the  wild  Hunter  might  be  a  relative 
of  old  Patrick  Mullen,"  I  said,  thinking  aloud, 
and  gasping  at  the  thought,  for  the  description 
of  the  rifle  somehow  impressed  me  again  with 
the  possibility  that  this  wild  man  of  the  moun 
tains  might  himself  be  Donald  Mullen,  and 
my  own  father! 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  kid?"  asked  Big 
Pete  with  a  queer  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  was  just  wondering 
to  myself.  But  what  makes  you  think  he's  a 
supernatural  being,  and,  Pete,  does  this  wild 
loony  hunter  look  at  all  like  me?" 

"Super  what?  Say  when  did  you  swallow 
a  dictionary? — Oh,  you  mean  what  makes 
me  think  he's  a  devil.  No,  he  don't  favor  you 
none,"  he  added  with  a  grin,  "he's  a  handsome 
devil,  although  he's  done  terrified  every  white 
man,  an'  Injun,  in  these  parts  half  t'  death, 
so  most  of  'ems  afeared  to  come  back  here  at 


44  The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

all.  Men  have  gone  in  the  park  jest  to  get  this 
wild  man's  scalp,  but  they've  done  come  back 
scared  yaller  an'  they  ain't  opened  their  trap 
much  about  him  since  nuther.  They  do  say  he 
spits  fire  an*  chaws  his  meat  offen  the  bone  an' 
then  cracks  the  bones  like  a  dog  an'  swallers 
it  all.  They  do  say,  too,  that  he  roars  like 
forty  devils  with  their  tails  cut  off  when  he 
gits  mad  an'  some  say  as  when  he  wants  t' 
git  som  wha'  in  a  hurry  he  jest  grabs  aholt  o' 
the  feet  o'  tha'  there  thunder  bird  and  she 
flies  off  with  him  and  draps  him  anywha'  he 
asks  her  to — Nope,  I  hain't  seen  none  of  these 
things  myself  but  others  say  they  has,  an' 
believe  me,  I'm  plumb  cautious  when  travelin* 
these  parts  alone.  Howsomever,  he  hain't 
yet  skeered  me  'nough  to  make  my  ha'r  come 
out  by  the  roots,"  said  Pete  with  a  yawn. 
"There,  kick  that  back  log  over  so's  the  fire  can 
lick  at  t'other  side;  now  let's  turn  in." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Big  Pete  and  I  spent  several  weeks  in  our 
charming  little  camp  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
park,  for  my  guide  decided  that  despite  the 
recent  presence  of  the  wild  hunter,  here  would 
be  a  good  place  to  get  a  shot  at  some  black- 
tail  deer.  In  fact  we  saw  signs  of  those 
animals  all  about  and  my  guide  was  only  look 
ing  for  fresh  indication  to  start  out  on  our  last 
hunt  before  we  made  our  way  deeper  into  the 
wilderness. 

On  the  third  day  of  our  stay  I  was  returning 
to  camp  with  my  shotgun  over  my  shoulder 
and  a  brace  of  sage  grouse  in  my  hand,  when 
I  came  upon  Big  Pete  in  a  swail  about  a  mile 
from  camp.  He  was  bending  low  and  exam 
ining  fresh  signs  when  he  saw  me. 

"Howdy,   kid,   here's   some   doin's.     Shall 

we  foller  him?" 

45 


46         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"Of  course,  Pete;  what  are  we  here  for,  the 
mountain  air?"  I  answered. 

"No,"  answered  Pete,  in  his  deep,  low  voice, 
"we're  here  for  game,"  and  off  he  started,  but 
slowly  and  with  great  caution.  I  felt  impa 
tient,  but  restrained  myself,  saying  nothing 
and  continued  to  follow  my  big  guide  who  now 
moved  with  the  most  painstaking  care.  Not 
a  twig  broke  beneath  his  moccasins  as  with 
panther-like  step  and  crouching  form  he  led 
me  through  a  lot  of  young  trees  over  a  rocky 
place  until  we  struck  a  small  spring  with  a 
soft  muddy  margin.  Here  Pete  came  to  a 
sudden  halt.  I  asked  him  why  he  did  not  go 
on,  and  he  pointed  to  a  ledge  of  rock  that  ran 
up  the  mountain  side  diagonally  with  a  flat, 
natural  roadbed  on  top,  graded  like  a  stage 
road  but  unlike  a  traveled  road,  ending  in  a 
bunch  of  underwood  and  brush  about  a  hun 
dred  yards  ahead. 

Above  the  ledge  of  the  rocks  was  a  steep 
declivity  of  loose  shale  sprinkled  over  with 
large  and  small  boulders  of  radically  different 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         47 

formations,  and  in  no  manner  resembling  the 
friable,  uncertain  bed  upon  which  they  rested. 

These  boulders  undoubtedly  showed  the  re 
sult  of  the  grinding  and  polishing  of  an  ancient, 
slow-moving  glacier,  but  some  other  force  had 
deposited  them  in  the  present  position. 

"He's  in  tha',"  whispered  Pete 

"Who,  the  wild  mountain  man?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  answered  my  guide,  "th*  grizzly." 

"The  what?"  I  almost  shouted. 

"Th'  grizzly,"  answered  Pete;  "what  do 
you  think  we've  been  following?" 

"Black-tailed  deer,"  I  said  softly,  with  my 
eyes  glued  on  the  thicket. 

"Well,  tenderfoot,  here's  the  trail  of  that 
tha'  deer,  and  he  hain't  been  gone  by  here 
mor'n  nor  a  week  ago,  nuther." 

I  looked  and  there  in  the  soft  mud  was  the 
print  of  a  foot,  a  human-looking  foot,  but 
for  the  evenness  in  the  length  of  the  toes  and 
the  sharpness  and  length  of  the  toe  nails. 
Yes,  there  was  another  difference,  and  that 
was  the  size.  It  was  the  footprint  of  a 


48         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

savage  Hercules,  the  track  of  an  enormous 
grizzly  bear,  and  the  soft  mud  that  had  dripped 
from  the  big  foot  was  still  undried  on  the 
leaves  and  grass  when  Pete  pointed  it  out  to 
me. 

"Well,  Pete,  don't  forget  your  promise  that 
I  am  to  have  first  shot  at  all  big  game,"  I 
whispered  with  my  best  effort  at  coolness,  but 
my  heart  was  thumping  against  my  ribs  at 
a  terrific  rate. 

"But — why,  bless  you  old  man!"  I  whis 
pered  excitedly  as  I  looked  at  my  gun,  "I  am 
armed  only  with  a  shotgun.' 

"Tha's  all  right,"  replied  the  big  trapper 
complacently;  then,  with  a  quick  motion,  he 
whipped  out  his  keen-edged  knife  and  snatch 
ing  one  of  my  cartridges  he  severed  the  shell 
neatly  between  the  two  wads  which  separated v 
the  powder  and  shot;  that  is,  a  wad  in  each 
piece  of  the  cartridge  was  exposed  by  the  cut. 

Guided  by  the  faint  longitudinal  seam  where 
the  edges  of  the  colored  paper  join  on  the  shell, 
Big  Pete  carefully  fitted  the  two  parts  of  the 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         49 

cartridge  together  exactly  as  they  were  before 
being  cut  apart.  Breaking  my  gun,  he  slipped 
the  mutilated  ammunition  into  the  unchoked 
barrel. 

"Tha',"  he  grunted,  "tha's  better  than  a 
bullet  at  short  range,  an'll  tar  a  hole  in  old 
Ephraim  big  enough  to  put  your  arm  through." 

He  cut  two  more  in  the  same  manner,  say 
ing,  "Be  darned  kerful  not  to  get  excited  and 
put  them  in  your  choke  barl,  or  tha'  may  be 
trouble." 

Hunting  a  grizzly  with  a  shotgun  and  bird 
shot  was  not  my  idea  of  safe  sport,  but  I  was 
too  much  of  a  moral  coward  to  acknowledge 
to  Pete  that  I  was  frightened.  Pete  examined 
his  gun,  ran  his  finger  over  the  cartridges  in 
his  belt,  and  went  through  all  the  familiar 
motions  which  to  him  were  unconscious  but 
always  foretold  danger  ahead. 

"You  drap  on  your  prayer  hinges  behind 
that  tha'  nigger  head,"  said  Pete,  "and  you 
will  have  a  dead  shot  at  the  brute,  an'  I'll  go 
up  and  roll  a  stone  down  the  mountain  side  and 


50         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

follow  it  as  fast  as  I  kin,  so  as  to  be  ready  to 
help  you  if  you  need  it;  but  you  ought  to  drap 
him  at  first  shot  at  short  range.  Yer  must 
drap  him,  yer  must  or  I  allow  tha'll  be  a  right 
smart  of  a  scrap  here,  and  don't  yer  forget 
it!" 

"This  is  no  Christmas  turkey  shooting, 
young  feller,  so  look  sharp,"  and  with  a  noise 
less  tread  Pete  vanished  in  the  wood,  while  I 
with  beating  heart  and  bulging  eyes  watched 
the  thicket  at  the  end  of  the  ledge.  I  had  not 
long  to  wait  before  I  heard  a  blood-curdling 
yell  and  then  crash!  crash!  crash!  came  a  big 
boulder  tearing  down  the  mountain  side.  It 
reached  a  point  just  over  the  thicket,  struck  a 
small  pine  tree,  broke  the  tree  and  leaped 
high  into  the  air,  then  crashed  into  the  middle 
of  the  brush. 

Following  with  giant  leaps  came  Big  Pete 
Darlinkel  down  the  rocky  declivity,  but  I 
only  looked  that  way  for  one  instant,  then  my 
eyes  were  again  fixed  on  the  thicket,  and  in 
my  excitement  I  arose  to  a  standing  position. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         51 

There  was  but  a  momentary  silence  after  the 
fall  of  the  boulder  before  I  heard  the  rustling 
of  sticks  and  leaves,  saw  the  top  of  the  bushes 
sway  as  some  heavy  body  moved  beneath, 
then  there  appeared  a  head,  and  what  a  head 
it  was!  Bigger  than  all  outdoors!  I  aimed 
my  gun,  but  my  body  swayed  and  the  end 
of  my  shotgun  described  a  large  circle  in  the 
air.  I  knew  that  my  position  was  serious,  but 
my  nerves  played  me  false. 

I  had  never  before  faced  a  grizzly.  I  heard 
Big  Pete's  voice  calling  to  me  to  drop  behind 
the  rock,  but  I  only  stood  there  with  a  dogged 
stupidity,  trying  to  aim  my  gun  at  a  mark 
which  seemed  to  me  as  big  almost  as  a  barn 
door. 

I  heard  Pete  give  a  sudden  cry  then  there 
was  a  rattle  of  stones  and  dirt  on  the  ledge 
in  front  of  the  mountain  of  brownish  hair  that 
was  advancing  in  sort  of  side  leaps  or  bounds 
like  a  big  ball. 

The  bear  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  to  my 
horror  I  saw  the  form  of  my  friend  shoot 


52         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

over  the  edge  of  the  overhanging  rock  right 
in  the  path  of  the  grizzly.  It  all  flashed 
through  my  mind  in  a  moment.  Pete  in  his 
haste  to  reach  me  had  lost  control  of  himself 
and  slid  with  the  rolling  stones  and  dirt  over 
the  mountain  side,  a  fall  of  at  least  twenty-five 
feet! 

Instantly  my  nerve  returned  and  I  rushed 
madly  up  the  incline  to  rescue  my  companion. 
I  bounded  between  the  branches  of  some  stout 
saplings,  they  parted  as  my  body  struck  them 
but  sprung  together  again  before  my  leg  had 
cleared  the  V-shaped  opening. 

My  foot  was  imprisoned  and  I  fell  with  a 
heavy  thud  on  my  face.  For  an  instant  I 
was  dazed,  but  even  in  my  dazed  state  I  was 
fully  conscious  of  Pete's  impending  peril, 
and  I  kicked  and  struggled  blindly  to  free 
myself.  My  gun  had  been  flung  from  my  hand 
in  my  fall  and  was  out  of  my  reach.  Then  to 
my  horror  I  heard  the  howl  the  wolf  gives  when 
game  is  in  sight,  and  even  half  blind  as  I  was 
I  saw  dark,  dog-like  forms  sweep  by  me;  I 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         53 

heard  the  scream  of  an  eagle;  I  heard  a  snarling 
and  yelping,  the  sounds  of  a  struggle — I 
ceased  to  kick,  wiped  the  blood  from  my  eyes 
and  looked  ahead. 

There  lay  Big  Pete  Darlinkel,  dead  or 
unconscious,  and  within  ten  feet  of  him 
stood  the  giant  bear  surrounded  by  a  vicious 
pack  of  gaunt  red-mouthed  wolves.  The 
bear  made  a  rush  and  a  shadow  passed  over 
the  ground;  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  large  body 
rushing  swiftly  through  the  air,  and  an 
immense  eagle  struck  the  bear  like  a  thunder 
bolt;  at  the  same  instant  the  wolves  attacked 
him  from  all  sides;  then  there  was  a  whistle 
keen  and  clear;  the  wolves  retreated;  the  bird 
again  soared  aloft;  the  bear  made  several 
passes  in  the  air  in  search  of  the  bird,  fell 
forward  again  on  all  fours,  rose  on  its  hind 
legs  and  killed  a  wolf  with  one  sweep  of  its 
great  paw. 

The  bear  now  made  a  dash  at  the  giant 
leader  of  the  pack,  only  to  fall  forward,  dead, 
with  its  ugly  nose  across  Big  Pete's  chest. 


54         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

Then  I  remembered  hearing  the  crack  of  a 
rifle,  and  knew  that  the  Wild  Mountain  Man 
had  saved  our  lives.  I  tried  to  rise  but  found 
my  ankle  so  badly  sprained  that  I  could  not 
stand  on  it. 

Suddenly  a  low  voice  with  a  hint  of  an 
Irish  accent  said,  "Sit  down,  stranger,  while 
I  look  to  your  mate,"  and  I  saw  the  tall  lithe 
figure  of  a  man  clothed  in  buckskin  bending 
over  Pete. 

"Only  stunned,  friend,"  said  he,  and  I 
heard  no  more.  The  blow  on  my  head, 
combined  with  the  pain  from  my  ankle  was 
too  much  for  me,  and  now  that  the  danger  was 
over  it  was  a  good  time  to  faint,  and  I  took 
advantage  of  it. 

How  long  I  remained  unconscious  I  do  not 
know,  but  when  my  eyes  opened  again  it  was 
night;  through  the  interlacing  boughs  over 
head  the  stars  were  shining  brightly,  my  head 
was  neatly  bandaged  and  so  was  my  foot  and 
ankle.  I  could  hear  cur  horses  cropping  grass 
near  by.  I  raised  my  head  and  there  lay 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         55 

Pete;  he  was  alive  I  knew  by  his  snores  that 
issued  from  his  nose,  and  we  were  in  our  own 
camp;  but — what  are  those  animals  by  our 
camp  fire?  Wolves!  gaunt,  shaggy  wolves! 

I  hastily  arose  to  a  sitting  posture,  but  my 
alarm  subsided  when  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
fire  I  could  trace  the  outline  of  another  man's 
figure,  and  on  a  stick  close  to  the  stranger's 
head  roosted  a  giant  bird. 

Could  it  be  that  this  wild  man  of  the  moun 
tain — possibly  my  own  father — was  camping 
with  us? 


CHAPTER  V 

"Moseyed,  by  gum!  I'll  be  tarnally  tar- 
nashuned  if  that  terri-fa-ca-cious  spook  hain't 
pulled  out!"  was  the  exclamation  that  awak 
ened  me  the  morning  after  our  adventure  with 
the  bear. 

Lazily  opening  my  eyes  I  gazed  a  moment 
at  the  sun  just  peeping  over  the  mountain, 
then  closed  them  again;  but  when  I  attempted 
to  change  my  position  a  sharp  pain  in  my 
ankle  thoroughly  awakened  me.  Still  I  lay 
quiet  because  it  was  some  time  before  I  could 
collect  my  scattered  senses  and  separate  in 
my  mind  the  real  incident  and  the  dream 
phantasms. 

The  pain  in  my  ankle,  the  swelled  and 
irritated  condition  of  my  nose  plainly  proved 
to  me  that  there  was  no  dream  about  my  in 
juries,  but  I  discovered  that  my  head  and  leg 
were  neatly  bandaged  with  strips  of  fine  linen. 

66 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         57 

I  sat  for  a  while  busily  collecting  the  incidents 
of  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  arranging  them 
in  my  mind  in  their  proper  order  and  place. 
I  cut  out  the  dream  portion  from  the  realities 
with  very  little  trouble  until  I  reached  the 
part  where  I  had  awakened  in  the  night  and 
had  seen  the  wolves,  the  eagle  and  the  Wild 
Hunter.  I  could  not  be  sure  whether  that  was 
a  dream  or  reality.  Had  I  seen  this  strange 
old  man  with  his  eagle  and  his  wolf  pack 
beside  our  camp  fire  or  had  I  dreamed  it? 
Had  this  hobgoblin  man,  who  might  be  my 
own  father,  rescued  me  from  death  at  the 
claws  of  the  grizzly  and  bound  my  wounds 
for  me,  or  was  that  but  a  dream  too?  Had 
not  Big  Pete  saved  me  perhaps  and  cared  for 
me  afterward? 

"Pete,  old  fellow,"  I  said  presently,  rising 
to  my  elbow,  "who  brought  me  to  camp? 
Who  killed  that  bear?  Who  saved  our  lives?" 

"The  Wild  Hunter,"  replied  Pete  gravely. 
"He  bathed  my  head  with  some  sort  of  good 
smelling  stuff  and,  though  I  am  as  heavy  as  a 


58         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

dead  buffaler,  toted  me  to  camp;  he  'lowed 
that  I  was  all  sort  of  shuk  up  and  a  little 
hazy;  he  fixed  my  blanket,  then  he  fetched 
you  in  on  his  shoulders  just  as  if  you  was  a 
dead  antelope,  fixed  you  up  with  bandages 
torn  from  handkerchiefs  in  your  pocket,  gave 
you  a  drink  which  you  didn't  seem  to  appre 
ciate,  but  just  swallowed  like  you  were  asleep, 
then  he  laid  you  out.  I  had  my  eye  peeled 
on  him  but  he  said  nary  a  word,  an'  when 
we  wuz  both  all  comfortable  he  pulled  out  a 
long  cigar,  sot  down  by  the  fire  and  was 
smoking  tha'  with  his  bird  and  his  wolves 
around  him  when  I  went  to  sleep. 

"He  cut  his  bullets  out,  as  he  allus  does," 
muttered  Pete  a  little  while  later 

"Who  cut  what  bullets?"  I  asked. 

"Whomsoever  cud  I  mean  but  th'  Wild 
Hunter,  and  wha's  tha'  been  any  bullets 
lately  but  in  th'  b'ar?"  queried  my  companion. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  I  admitted,  "but  why  do 
you  suppose  he  cut  out  the  bullets?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  tha'  might  be  right  scarce 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         59 

and  he  haster  be  kinder  sparing  with  them. 
I  calculate  you'd  like  to  have  a  hatful  of  them 
balls,  leastwise  most  folks  would;  cause 

the  Wild  Hunter  don't  use  no  common  low- 

i 

flung  lead  for  his  bullets,  no-sir-ree  bob-horse 
fly  !  Tain't  good  'miff*  for  a  high-cock-alorum 
like  him — he  shoots  balls  of  virgin  gold!'9 

But  I  was  more  interested  in  what  had 
become  of  this  strange  man  than  in  the  sort 
of  projectiles  rumor  said  that  he  used  in  his 
gun  and  so  dismissed  the  subject  with  a 
request  for  further  information  about  our 
rescuer. 

"This  morning  when  I  opened  my  peepers/' 
Pete  continued,  "I  t'ought  maybe  the  Wild 
Hunter  had  only  gone  off"  on  a  tramp;  but 
he's  done  clared  out  for  good,  and  tuk  his 
wolves  and  bird  with  him.  I'm  some  glad  he 
took  th'  wolves,  I  don't  sorter  like  the  look 
of  their  mean  eyes;  they  do  say  that  he  is  a 
wolf  himself  and  the  head  of  the  pack." 

"What's  that,  Pete?  Steady,  old  man,  now 
let's  go  slow." 


60         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"All  right;  tha's  wha'  I  mean  ter  do. 
'Cause  it  hain't  a  varmint  natur'  to  help 
men  folks,  and  he  done  helped  us,  and  no 
mistake,  and  left  us  the  bulk  of  the  b'ar  too, — 
only  took  the  claws,  teeth  and  tenderloin  or 
two  for  himself  and  pack;  that  is,  if  he  be  a 
wolf.  But  we  will  settle  that  if  your  foot 
will  let  you  walk  a  bit." 

"How  far?"  I   asked. 

"Only  over  yan  way  to  the  first  piece  of 
wet  ground,  and  the  trail  leads  down  to  tha' 
spring  tha',  and  tha'  is  quite  a  right  smart 
bit  of  muddy  swail  beyont." 

"All  right,  I'll  try  it,"  I  exclaimed.  But 
I  could  not  touch  my  foot  on  the  ground,  and 
it  was  not  until  my  guide  had  made  me  a 
crutch  of  a  forked  branch,  padded  with 
a  piece  of  fur,  that  I  was  able  to  go  limping 
along  after  Big  Pete. 

We  followed  the  trail  left  by  the  Wild 
Hunter  to  the  spring.  The  trail  after  that 
was  plain,  even  to  my  inexperienced  eyes; 
r.nd  when  we  reached  the  muddy  spot  the 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        61 

print  of  the  moccasined  feet  and  the  dog-like 
tracks  of  the  wolves  were  distinctly  visible. 

But  look  at  Big  Pete! 

As  motionless  as  a  statue,  with  a  solemn 
face  he  stoops  with  a  rigid  figure  pointing  to 
the  trail!  I  hastened  to  his  side  and  saw  that 
the  moccasin  prints  ceased  in  the  middle  of 
an  open,  bare,  muddy  place  and  beyond  were 
nothing  but  the  dog-like  tracks  of  the  wolves. 

I  looked  up  and  all  around;  there  were  no 
overhanging  branches  that  a  man  could 
swing  himself  upon,  no  stones  that  he  could 
leap  upon — nothing  but  the  straggling  bunches 
of  ferns;  but  here  in  this  open  spot  the  Wild 
Hunter  vanished. 

We  walked  back  in  silence,  for  I  had  nothing 
to  say,  and  Pete  did  not  volunteer  any  further 
information. 


CHAPTER  VI 

To  have  one's  nose  all  but  broken,  both 
eyes  blackened  and  a  twisted  ankle  is  a  sad 
misfortune  wherever  it  occurs,  but  when  such 
a  thing  happens  to  a  fellow  many  weary  miles 
from  the  nearest  human  habitation  and  in  a 
howling  wilderness  it  might  be  considered 
anything  but  pleasant.  Yet,  strange  as  it 
may  appear,  among  the  most  pleasant  and 
precious  memories  I  have  stored  away  in  my 
mind,  only  to  be  tapped  upon  special  occasions, 
is  the  memory  of  the  glorious  days  spent  nurs 
ing  my  bruises  and  lolling  around  that  far 
away  camp.  Sometimes  I  listened  to  the 
quaint  yarns  of  my  unique  and  interesting 
guide  or  idly  watched  the  changing  colors  and 
effects  which  the  sun  and  the  atmosphere  pro 
duced  on  the  snow-capped  mountains  of 
Darlinkel's  Park.  I  made  friends  with  our 

62 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         63 

little  neighbors  the  rock-chuck,  whose  home 
was  in  the  base  of  the  cliff  back  of  the  spring, 
and  became  intimate  with  the  golden  chip 
munk  and  its  pretty  little  black  and  white 
cousin,  the  four-striped  chipmunk,  both  of 
which  were  common  and  remarkably  tame 
about  camp. 

Back  of  the  camp  in  the  dark  shade  of  the 
evergreens  there  was  a  bark  mound  composed 
entirely  of  the  fragments  of  the  conifera  cones, 
which  Pete  said  was  the  squirrel's  dining  room. 
This  mound  contained  at  least  four  good  cart 
loads  of  fragments  and  all  of  it  was  the  work 
of  the  impudent  little  blunt-nosed  red  squirrels, 
which  were  plentiful  in  the  woods. 

How  long  it  took  these  small  rodents  to 
heap  such  a  mass  of  material  together  I  was 
unable  to  calculate,  but  the  mound  was  as 
large  as  some  of  the  shell  heaps  made  by  the 
ancient  oyster-eating  men  and  left  by  them 
along  our  coast  from  Florida  to  Maine. 

The  numerous  magpies  seemed  to  be  con 
scious  of  my  admiration  of  their  beautiful 


64         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

piebald  plumage  and  to  take  every  opportunity 
to  show  oft  its  irridescent  hues  to  the  best 
advantage  in  the  sunlight. 

Pete  evidently  thought  I  was  a  chap  of 
very  low  taste,  with  a  great  lack  of  discrimina 
tion  in  the  choice  of  my  friends  among  the 
forest  folk,  and  he  could  see  no  reason  for 
my  intimacy  with  "all  th'  outlaws  and  most 
rascally  varmints  of  the  park." 

Truth  compels  me  to  admit  that  the  pranks 
of  some  of  my  little  friends  were  often  mis 
chievous  and  annoying,  but  they  were  also 
humorous  and  entertaining  and  I  laughed 
when  the  "tallow-head"  jay  swooped  down 
and  snatched  a  tid-bit  from  Pete's  plate  just  as 
he  was  about  to  eat  it,  and  when  the  irate 
trapper  threw  his  plate  at  the  camp  robber 
it  was  a  charming  sight  to  see  a  number  of 
birds  flutter  down  to  feast  upon  the  scattered 
food. 

The  loud-mouthed,  self-asserting  fly-catcher 
in  the  cottonwood  tree  learned  to  know  my 
whistle,  and  whenever  I  attempted  to  mimic 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         65 

him  he  would  send  back  a  ringing  answer. 
The  charming  little  lazulii  buntings  were 
tamer  than  the  irritating  dirty  English  spar 
rows  at  home. 

It  was  interesting  to  notice  how  quickly  all 
our  little  wild  neighbors  learned  to  know  that 
the  sound  produced  by  banging  on  a  tin  plate 
meant  dough-god  and  other  good  things  at  our 
camp,  and  as  they  came  rustling  among  the 
grasses  or  fluttering  from  bush  and  trees  they 
showed  more  fear  of  each  other  than  they  did 
of  Pete  and  me. 

When  the  myriads  of  bright  stars  would 
twinkle  in  the  blue  black  sky  or  the  great 
round-faced  moon  climb  over  the  mountain 
tops  to  see  what  was  doing  in  the  park,  the 
birds  and  chipmunks  were  quiet,  but  then 
the  big  pack-rats,  with  squirrel-like  tails, 
would  troop  out  from  their  secret  caves  and 
invade  the  camp. 

In  the  gray  dawn,  while  sleeping  in  a  tent, 
I  often  awakened  to  hear  something  scamper 
up  its  steep  side  and  then  laughed  to  see  the 


66        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

shadow  of  a  comical  little  body  toboggan 
down  the  canvas.  Our  pocket-knives,  com 
passes  and  all  other  small  objects  were  never 
safe  unless  securely  packed  away  out  of  reach 
of  these  nocturnal  marauders. 

Our  conversations  around  the  camp  fire 
evenings  were  highly  interesting  too,  for  Big 
Pete  was  a  fluent  talker  with  a  wealth  of 
stories  of  the  Great  West  at  his  tongue's  end. 
Indeed,  the  story  of  his  family  and  their 
migration  west  was  one  that  fascinated  me. 
His  father  had  been  a  trapper  in  the  old  days; 
he  had  done  his  share  of  roaming  the  moun 
tains,  prospecting  and  making  his  strikes, 
small  and  large,  fighting  Indians  and  living 
the  strenuous  life  of  the  border  pioneer.  He 
had  found  the  woman  he  afterward  married 
unconscious  under  an  overturned  wagon  of 
an  emigrant  train  that  had  been  raided  by  the 
Indians,  and  after  nursing  her  back  to  health 
in  his  mining  shack,  had  married  her.  With 
money  he  had  worked  from  the  "diggin's" 
he  had  acquired,  by  grants  from  the  govern- 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         67 

ment,  the  beautiful  and  expansive  mountain 
park  where  he  had  planned  to  develop  a 
ranch.  He  never  went  very  far  with  his 
project,  however,  for  a  raiding  party  of 
Indians  caught  him  alone  in  the  mountains 
and  his  wife  found  his  body  pinned  to  the 
ground  with  arrows.  The  shock  of  his  tragedy 
killed  Big  Pete's  mother  soon  after,  and  the 
young  Peter  Darlinkel,  then  three  years  old, 
went  to  a  nearby  settlement  to  be  brought  up 
by  an  uncle  and  a  squaw  aunt.  Pete  became 
prospector,  scout,  trapper  and  hunter,  using 
this  beautiful  park  that  became  his  as  a  result 
of  the  passing  of  his  father,  as  a  private  game 
preserve,  so  to  speak.  That  is,  it  was  private 
except  for  the  intrusion  of  the  Wild  Hunter 
and  his  black  wolf  pack. 

In  a  fragmentary  way  Big  Pete  told  me  this 
story  and  other  interesting  tales  of  this  wild 
western  country,  but  mostly  our  conversation 
turned  to  this  old  man  of  the  mountains  who 
was  such  a  mystery  to  everyone,  even  to  Big 
Pete,  but  who,  despite  the  lugubrious  reputa- 


68         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

tion,  had  proved  a  kindly  gentleman  and  a 
good  friend  to  me. 

There  were  no  visible  signs  of  a  change  in  the 
weather  which  had  been  clear  for  weeks,  and 
the  sky  was  otherwise  clear  blue  save  where 
the  white  mares'  tails  swept  across  the  heavens. 
But  when  we  sat  down  to  supper  that  evening 
I  could  hear  the  rumbling  of  distant  thunder. 
I  knew  it  was  thunder  for,  although  the  fall 
of  avalanches  makes  the  same  noise,  ava 
lanches  choose  the  noon  time  to  fall  when  the 
sun  is  hottest  and  the  snows  softest.  Soon  I 
could  see  the  heads  of  some  dark  clouds 
peering  at  us  over  the  mountains  and  before 
dark  the  clouds  crept  over  the  mountain  tops 
and  overcast  our  sky. 

It  rained  all  that  night  in  a  fitful  manner  and 
came  to  a  stop  about  four  A.  M.  The  wind 
went  down  and  the  air  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
vivacity  and  life;  it  was  a  dead  atmosphere; 
we  arose  from  our  blankets  feeling  tired  and 
listless. 

While  we  were  eating  our  breakfast  dark 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         69 

clouds  again  suddenly  obscured  the  heavens 
and  before  we  had  finished  the  meal  big  drops 
of  rain  set  the  camp  fire  spluttering  and  drove 
us  to  the  shelter  of  our  tent;  then  it  rained! 
Lord  help  us!  the  water  came  down  in  such 
torrents  that  on  account  of  the  spray  we  could 
not  see  thirty  feet;  then  came  hailstones  as 
large  as  hen's  eggs.  There  was  some  lightning 
and  thunder,  but  either  the  splashing  of  the 
water  drowned  the  rumbling  or  the  electric 
fluid  was  so  far  distant  that  the  reports  were 
not  loud  when  they  reached  us.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  ripping  noise,  followed  by  a  sort 
of  subdued  roar  which  stampeded  our  horses 
from  their  shelter  under  a  projecting  rock  and 
made  the  earth  shudder. 

"Earthquake!"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Wuss,"  said  Pete,  "hit's  a  landslide." 

Instantly  a  thought  went  through  my  brain 
like  a  hot  bullet  and  made  me  shudder. 

"Pete,"  I  shouted. 

"I'm  right  hyer,  tenderfut,  you  needn't  holler 
so  loud,"  he  answered,  and  calmly  filled  his  pipe- 


70         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

I  flung  myself  impulsively  on  my  com 
panion,  grasped  his  big  brawny  shoulders,  and 
with  my  face  close  to  his  I  whispered,  "Pete, 
I  believe  the  slide  occurred  at  the  gate." 

"Well,  hit  did  sound  that-a-way,"  admitted 
Pete  composedly. 

"Pete,"  I  continued,  "that  butte  has  caved 
in  on  our  trail!" 

"Wull,  tenderfut,  we  ain't  hurt,  be  we? 
Tha's  plenty  of  game  here  fur  the  tak'n  of  it 
and  plenty  of  water,  as  fine  as  ever  spouted 
from  old  Moses'  rock,  right  at  hand.  If  the 
Mesa's  cut  our  trail  we  can  live  well  here  for 
a  hundred  years  and  not  have  to  chew  wolf 
mutton  neither.  I  don't  reckon  I  can  go  to 
York  with  you  just  yet,"  drawled  my  comrade 
in  a  most  provokingly  imperturbable  manner, 
as  he  slowly  freed  himself  from  my  grasp  and 
made  for  the  camp  fire,  which  being  to  a  great 
extent  sheltered  by  an  overhanging  rock,  was 
still  smouldering  in  spite  of  the  drenching  rain. 
Raking  the  ashes  until  he  found  a  red  glowing 
coal,  Pete  deftly  picked  it  up  and  by  juggling 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         71 

it  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  he  conducted 
the  live  ember  to  his  pipe-bowl,  then  he  puffed 
away  as  calmly  as  if  there  was  nothing  in  this 
world  to  trouble  him. 

"If  the  gate  be  shut,"  he  resumed,  "it  will 
keep  out  prospectors,  tramps  and  Injuns." 
With  that  he  went  to  smoking  his  red-willow* 
bark  again. 

But  I  could  not  view  the  situation  so  com 
placently,  and  when  the  rain  had  ceased  as 
suddenly  as  it  began,  with  some  difficulty  I 
caught  my  horse  and  made  my  way  to  the 
gate,  to  discover  that  my  worst  fears  were 
realized;  a  large  section  of  the  cliff  had  split 
off  the  Mesa  and  slid  down  into  the  narrow 
gateway  completely  filling  the  space  and 
leaving  a  wall  of  over  one  hundred  feet  of 
sheer  precipice  for  us  to  climb  before  we  could 
escape  from  our  Eden-like  prison. 

Again  a  wave  of  superstitious  dread  swept 
over  me  as  I  viewed  the  tightly  closed  exit, 

*The  trappers  and  Indians  made  Kil-i-ki-nic,  or  Kinnikinick,  by 
mixing  tobacco  with  the  inside  bark  of  red  willow,  which  is  the 
common  name  for  the  red  osier  of  the  dogwood  family.  EDITOR. 


72         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

a  dread  that  perhaps  after  all  there  was  more 
to  Big  Pete's  superstitions  about  the  Wild 
Hunter  than  I  dared  to  admit,  else  why  should 
that  cliff  which  had  stood  for  thousands  of 
years  take  this  opportunity  to  split  off  and 
choke  up  the  ancient  trail? 

The  longer  I  questioned  myself,  the  less 
was  my  ability  to  answer.  I  sat  on  a  stone 
and  for  some  time  was  lost  in  thought.  When 
at  length  I  looked  up  it  was  to  see  Big  Pete 
with  folded  arms  silently  gazing  at  the  barri 
caded  exit  and  the  muddy  pool  of  water  ex 
tending  for  some  distance  back  of  the  gateway 
into  the  park. 

"Well,  tenderfut,  you  was  dead  right  in 
your  judication.  The  gate  air  shut  sure 
'nuff.  Our  horses  ain't  likely  to  take  the 
back  trail  and  leave  us,  that's  sartin." 

"Oh,  Pete,"  I  exclaimed,  "how  will  we  ever 
get  out?  Must  we  spend  the  remainder  of 
our  lives  here?" 

"It  do  look  as  if  we'd  stop  hyer  a  right 
smart  bit,"  he  admitted,  "maybe  till  this 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         73 

hyer  holler  between  the  mountains  all  fills 
with  water  agin  like  it  was  onct  before,  I 
reckon.  Don't  you  think  that  we'd  better  get 
busy  and  build  a  Noah's  Ark?" 

"Pete,  you'd  joke  if  the  world  came  to  an 
end.  But  seriously  I  think  we  might  move 
our  camp  back  to  the  far  end  of  your  park." 


CHAPTER  VII 

One  day  after  we  had  selected  our  new  camp, 
I  took  my  rod  along  and  wandered  into  the 
wonderful  forest  of  ancient  trees.  There  I 
seated  myself  on  a  log  to  think  over  my  ex 
perience.  Somehow  my  own  trials  and  ambi 
tions  seemed  small,  trivial  and  not  worth 
while  when  I  looked  upon  those  grand  trees 
standing  silently  on  guard  as  they  were  stand 
ing  when  Columbus  was  busy  smashing  a  hard- 
boiled  egg  to  make  it  stand  on  end.  Yes, 
naturalists  tell  us  some  of  these  same  trees 
were  standing  before  the  New  Testament  was 
written  and  then  as  now  their  branches  con 
cealed  their  lofty  tops  and  formed  a  screen 
through  which  the  powerful  rays  of  the  noon 
day  sun  are  filtered,  refined  and  subdued  to  a 
dreamy  twilight  below,  a  twilight  in  which 
the  soft  green  mosses  and  lace-like  ferns  thrive 
into  luxuriant  growth. 

74 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         75 

It  was  so  still  and  quiet  in  that  forest  that 
the  silence  seemed  to  hurt  my  ears  and  I 
found  myself  listening  to  see  if  I  could  not  hear 
the  deep  dark  blue  blossoms  of  the  fringed 
gentians  whispering  scandals  about  the  flam 
ing  Indian  paint  brushes  that  flourished  in 
the  opening  in  the  woods  where  the  sun's 
ray  could  reach  and  warm  the  dark  earth. 
As  I  listened  I  could  not  help  but  speculate 
a  great  deal  as  to  the  possibilities  of  the  odd 
old  man  of  this  forest  being  in  some  way 
connected  with  my  father's  history,  but  the 
story  of  the  wolf-man  as  given  to  me  by  my 
big  companion  was  so  varied  and  so  mixed 
with  the  superstitions  of  the  Indians  and 
trappers  who  had  come  in  contact  with  him, 
or  had  seen  him  and  his  weird  wolf  pack 
roaming  the  mountains,  that  I  could  not 
in  any  way  take  it  as  the  basis  for  a  solution 
of  the  problem. 

Indeed,  the  more  Big  Pete  told  me  the  less 
I  believed  that  this  strange  and  probably 
mad  man  could  be  mv  father.  In  truth,  the 


76         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

only  real  clue  or  even  faint  reason  I  had  for 
believing  that  he  owned  the  missing  "  Patrick 
Mullen "  was  because  this  gun  at  a  distance 
seemed  to  correspond  with  the  description  of 
the  Mullen's  gun.  It  was  a  faint  clue  indeed 
and  sometimes  seemed  not  worth  investiga 
tion.  Yet  when  I  began  to  doubt  the  possi 
bility  an  unexplained  impulse  or  force  kept 
urging  me  on  to  believe  that  if  I  but  persisted 
and  found  an  opportunity  to  examine  this  gun 
it  would  prove  to  be  the  one  I  sought,  and  if  I 
had  a  chance  to  talk  to  this  strange  Wild 
Hunter  much  of  the  mystery  that  surrounded 
my  own  babyhood  would  be  cleared  up,  so 
I  found  myself  earnestly  longing  for  a  real 
interview  with  this  mysterious  creature. 

The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  I  was 
inclined  to  believe  that  I  was  on  the  right 
track,  until  at  last  convinced  that  this  was  so, 
I  cried  aloud,  "I  have  found  him!" 

"Who!  Who!"  queried  a  startled  owl,  as  it 
peered  down  at  me  from  its  hiding  place  in 
the  dense  foliage  of  a  cedar  far  above. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         77 

"Never  mind  who,  you  old  rascal/'  I  laugh 
ingly  replied,  and  picking  up  my  fishing-rod  I 
parted  the  underbrush  to  start  on  my  way 
through  the  wood  for  some  trout,  but  suddenly 
halted  when  I  found  myself  staring  into  the 
face  of  a  huge  timber  wolf.  The  beast's  lips 
were  drawn  back  displaying  its  gleaming  fangs, 
its  back  hair  was  as  erect  as  the  cropped  mane 
of  a  pony,  its  mongolian  eyes  shone  green 
through  their  narrow  slits  and  its  whole  atti 
tude  seemed  to  say,  "Well,  now  that  you  have 
found  me,  what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

Now,  boys,  do  not  make  any  mistake  about 
me,  I  am  not  a  hero  and  never  posed  as  one; 
in  truth  my  timidity  at  times  amounts  to 
cowardice,  a  fact  which  I  usually  keep  to 
myself,  but  I  never  was  afraid  of  wolves 
until  I  so  unexpectedly  met  this  one.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  I  have  no  hair  on  my  back, 
it  is  as  bare  as  that  of  any  other  fellow's, 
nevertheless,  on  this  occasion  I  could  distinctly 
feel  my  bristles  rise  from  the  nape  of  my  neck 
to  the  end  of  my  spine,  just  the  same  as  those 


78         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

on  the  oblique-eyed,  shaggy  monster  whose 
snapping  teeth  were  so  near  my  face. 

Everybody  is  familiar  with  the  fact  that 
people  who  have  had  limbs  amputated  often 
complain  of  pains  or  itching  in  the  missing 
members.  My  missing  back  hair,  the  hair 
which  my  ancestors  lost  by  the  slow  process 
of  evolution,  the  hair  which  grew  on  the  back 
of  the  "missing  link,"  stood  on  end  at  the 
sight  of  this  wolf.  However,  this  fear  was 
but  momentary  and  when  my  courage  re 
turned  I  lifted  my  rod  case  in  a  threatening 
manner,  and  the  wolf  slunk  away  as  noise 
lessly  as  a  shadow,  and  like  a  shadow  faded 
out  of  sight  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the  ancient 
forest.  When  I  reached  the  open  land  beyond 
the  forest  another  surprise  awaited  me. 

Surely  this  is  heaven,  I  thought  as  I  waded 
knee-deep  among  the  beautiful  flowers  of  the 
prairie,  starting  the  sharp  pin-tailed  grouse, 
prairie  chickens  and  sage  grouse  from  their 
retreats  and  sending  the  meadow-larks  skim 
ming  away  over  flowering  billows.  Reaching 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        79 

an  elevation  where  I  could  peer  beyond  the 
crests  of  one  of  the  "ground  swells"  which 
furrowed  the  sea  of  nodding  blossoms,  I  saw 
through  the  stems  of  the  plants,  a  part  of  the 
prairie  at  first  concealed  from  view,  and  there 
appeared  to  be  numerous  irregular  boulders 
of  dark  brown  stone  scattered  around  among 
the  vegetation,  and  the  boulders  were  moving! 

Careful  scrutiny,  however,  proved  them  to 
be  not  stones  but  live  buffalo.  Big  Pete 
had  often  told  me  that  these  animals  lived 
unmolested  by  him  in  the  park;  but  when  I 
realized  that  I  was  looking  at  between  three 
and  four  hundred  real  buffalo  my  heart  gave 
a  great  jump  of  joy.  I  tried  to  view  them  so 
as  to  take  in  their  details,  but  the  apparently 
shapeless  masses  of  dark  reddish  brown  wool 
appeared  to  have  none,  unless  indeed  the 
comical  fur  trousers  with  frayed  bottoms  on 
their  front  legs  might  be  called  detail. 

Even  the  faces  of  the  beasts  were  so  con 
cealed  by  masks  of  knotted  wool  that  at  first 
I  could  distinguish  neither  eyes,  noses,  horns 


80        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

or  ears;  but  in  spite  of  their  ragged  trousers 
and  their  masked  faces,  the  bison  are  sublime 
in  their  mighty  strength  and  ponderous  pro 
portions,  and  as  this  was  the  first  wild  herd 
I  had  ever  seen  and  one  of  the  very  few,  if 
not  the  only  one,  then  extant,  I  viewed  them 
with  the  keenest  interest. 

But  the  scattered  bunches  of  antelope,  which 
I  now  noticed  were  dotting  the  plains  around 
the  buffalo,  appealed  to  my  love  of  the  beauti 
ful.  Knowing  that  in  other  localities  these 
charming  little  creatures  are  rapidly  being 
slaughtered  and  steadily  decreasing  in  num 
bers  and  that  all  attempts  to  breed  them  in 
captivity  have  so  far  failed,  they  at  once 
absorbed  my  attention  to  the  exclusion  of 
their  larger  neighbors. 

When  we  moved  our  camp  to  the  far  side 
of  the  lake,  Big  Pete  told  me  that  I  could  find 
plenty  of  trout  streams  beyond  the  timber 
belt,  and  he  also  informed  me  that  I  could 
there  see  the  walls  of  the  park  and  satisfy 
myself  that  there  was  but  one  trail  leading 
into  the  preserve. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         81 

I  do  not  now  recall  the  sort  of  walls  that 
were  pictured  in  my  mind  or  know  what  I 
really  expected  to  see  enclosing  Darlinkel's 
Park,  but  I  do  know  that  when  I  suddenly 
emerged  from  the  dark  forests  into  the  sunlit 
prairie,  the  scene  which  greeted  my  vision 
was  not  the  one  painted  by  my  imagination. 

Before  me  stretched  an  open  plain  sur 
rounded  by  mountains  arising  abruptly  from 
a  bed  of  many  colored  flowers;  they  were  the 
same  ranges  whose  snow-covered  peaks  formed 
a  feature  of  the  landscape  at  the  lake  and  at 
our  first  camp. 

Here,  however,  their  appearance  was  dif 
ferent,  as  different  as  the  dark  forest  from 
the  open  sunlit  prairie.  The  scene  at  first 
did  not  seem  real,  it  had  a  sort  of  a  drop- 
curtain  effect  that  was  as  familiar  to  me  as 
the  row  of  footlights  and  gilded  boxes,  but 
never  did  I  expect  to  see  those  delicate  tints, 
that  blue  atmosphere,  the  fresco  colored  rocks 
and  all  the  theatrical  properties  of  a  drop- 
curtain  duplicated  in  nature,  yet  here  it  was 


82         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

before  me,  not  a  detail  wanting,  even  the 
impossible  mammoth  bed  of  gaudy  flowers  at 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  was  here  and  the 
numerous  cascades  had  not  been  forgotten. 
Well,  it  does  seem  wonderful  to  me  that 
unknown  theatrical  daubers  should  know  so 
much  more  of  nature  than  the  public  for 
whom  they  paint. 

But,  nature  is  a  bolder  artist  than  even  the 
daring  scenic  painters;  in  front  of  me  was  a 
prairie  of  flowers,  acres  and  acres  of  waving, 
undulating  masses  of  color;  thousands  of 
Arizona  wyetha  (wild  sunflowers)  mingled 
with  the  brilliant  tips  of  the  fire-weed  and 
clumps  of  odorous  and  delicately  colored 
horsemint.  There  were  other  flowers  un 
familiar  to  me  and  hundreds  of  big  blossoms  of 
what  I  took  to  be  a  member  of  the  primrose 
family.  It  was  in  this  garden  that  the 
buffalo  and  antelope  were  grazing. 

An  old  buck  antelope  saw  me  and  I  instantly 
dropped  to  the  ground  and  was  concealed  by 
the  flowering  vegetation.  I  wanted  to  see 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         83 

the  home  life  of  these  animals,  but  was 
disappointed  because  of  the  attention  I  had 
attracted.  When  first  discovered  the  does 
were  browsing  with  heads  down  and  the  kids 
were  playing  tag  with  one  another,  every  once 
in  a  while  spreading  the  white  hair  on  their 
rumps  and  then  lowering  the  "white  flag" 
again,  they  apparently  used  it  as  a  Morse 
signal  system  of  their  own.  But  now  they 
were  all  alert  and  facing  me;  the  bucks  had 
seen  something  and  that  something  had 
suddenly  disappeared.  This  must  be  investi 
gated,  so  they  circled  round  hesitatingly;  the 
apparition  might  be  a  foe  but  still  they  must 
satisfy  their  curiosity  and  discover  what  it  was 
of  which  they  had  had  a  moment's  glimpse 
and  thus  they  approached  nearer  and  ever 
nearer  to  my  place  of  concealment. 

Soon,  however,  I  became  aware  of  the  fact 
that  the  antelope  had  unaccountably  lost  all 
thought  of  me  and  were  deeply  interested  in 
something  else  which  from  their  actions  I 
concluded  to  be  recognized  as  an  enemy. 


84         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

It  was  now  apparent  that  if  Big  Pete  did  not 
hunt  the  prong-horns  someone  or  something 
else  did  hunt  them. 

As  a  bunch  broke  away  from  the  scattered 
groups  and  came  in  my  direction,  making  great 
leaps  over  the  prairie,  I  detected  the  cause  of 
their  panic  in  the  form  of  a  huge  eagle  which 
was  keeping  pace  with  and  flying  over  the 
fleeing  prong-horns. 

The  bird  was  not  more  than  a  dozen  feet 
above  the  animals'  backs  and  in  vain  did 
the  poor  creatures  try  to  distance  their 
pursuer.  At  length  they  scattered,  each  one 
taking  a  course  of  his  own.  Then  the  bird  did 
a  strange  thing.  It  singled  out  the  largest 
buck  and  persistently  following  him,  it  came 
directly  towards  me  and  passed  within  ten 
feet  of  my  ambush,  the  broad  wings  of  the 
antelope's  relentless  foe  casting  a  dark  shadow 
over  the  straining  muscles  of  the  beautiful 
animal's  back.  I  was  tempted  to  drive  the 
bird  away  or  shoot  at  it  with  my  revolver, 
but  the  thought  that  I  had  seen  that  bird 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         85 

before  restrained  me  and  the  fact  that  it  pur 
sued  a  strong,  healthy  buck  instead  of  selecting 
a  weaker  and  more  easy  prey  convinced  me 
that  this  eagle  had  been  trained  to  the  hunt 
and  was  not  a  wild*  bird,  for  the  immutable 
law  that  "  labor  follows  the  line  of  least  resis 
tance"  holds  good  with  all  wild  creatures. 
It  was  not  long  before  I  had  to  use  my  field 
glasses  to  follow  the  chase  and  then  I  dis 
covered  that  the  poor  prong-horn  was  showing 
signs  of  fatigue.  It  had  made  a  grave  error 
in  dashing  up  an  incline  and  the  eagle  from 
his  position  above  knew  that  the  time  had 
come  to  strike  and,  like  a  thunderbolt,  it 
fell,  striking  its  hooked  talons  in  the  graceful 
neck  of  the  terror-stricken  antelope. 

Hoping  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  last 
tragedy,  I  hastened  towards  the  spot  and 
before  I  was  aware  of  my  position,  found 
myself  close  to  the  herd  of  buffalo.  I  then 
saw  that  these  beasts  being  unaccustomed  to 


*The  late  Howard  Eaton  of  Wolf,  Wyoming,  watched  an  eagle 
hunt  down  a  prong-horned  buck. — EDITOR. 


86         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

man,  did  not  fear  him,  but  on  the  contrary 
meant  to  show  fight.  As  I  came  to  a  sudden 
halt  the  old  bulls  began  to  paw  the  earth, 
throwing  the  dirt  up  over  their  backs  and 
bellowing  with  a  low  vibrating  roar  that  was 
terror-inspiring.  Then  they  dropped  to  their 
knees,  rolled  on  their  backs,  got  up,  shook 
themselves,  licked  their  noses,  "rolled  up  their 
tails"  into  stiff  curves,  put  down  their  heads 
and  came  at  me.  The  cows  with  their  hair 
standing  on  end  like  angry  elks  and  bellowing 
loudly  were  not  behind  their  lords  in  aggres 
siveness  and  the  comical  little  calves  came 
bouncing  along  after  their  dame. 

Was  I  frightened?  That  depends  upon 
one's  definition  of  the  word.  I  was  not 
panic-stricken,  but  to  say  that  I  was  not 
excited  when  I  saw  those  animated  masses 
of  dark  brown  wool  come  roaring  and  thun 
dering  at  me  would  be  to  make  boast  that  no 
one  who  has  had  a  similar  experience  would 
believe. 

Fortunately,  not  far  behind  me  was   the 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         87 

hollow  or  gully  already  mentioned  and  I 
bolted  over  the  edge  of  it.  As  soon  as  the  bank 
concealed  my  person  I  ran  as  I  never  ran 
before  taking  a  course  at  right  angles  to  my 
original  one  and  leeward  of  the  herd,  and  at 
last,  out  of  breath,  I  rolled  over  in  the  weeds 
and  lay  there  panting  and  straining  my  ears 
to  hear  the  snorting  beasts. 

My  chest  felt  dry,  hot  and  oppressed  from 
forced  and  labored  breathing,  and  had  the 
buffalo  discovered  me  I  do  not  think  I  could 
have  run  another  step.  But  the  big  brutes 
halted  at  the  edge  of  the  bank  and  seeing  no 
one  in  sight  walked  around  pawing  and  throw 
ing  up  great  clouds  of  dust  and  in  their  rage 
apparently  daring  me  to  come  forth.  Like 
a  small  boy  when  he  hears  a  challenge  from 
a  gang  of  toughs,  I  decided  that  I  did  not  want 
to  fight  and  lay  as  quiet  as  possible  among 
the  sunflowers  until  I  had  regained  my  breath. 
When  the  buffalo  wandered  back  to  their 
original  pasture  land  I,  like  a  coyote,  slunk 
away  and  consoled  myself  with  the  thought 


88         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

that  although  I  had  had  my  run  for  my  money, 
at  least,  I  had  seen  the  death  of  the  antelope 
even  if  I  did  miss  again  seeing  the  Wild 
Hunter  "collar  his  game,"  as  Big  Pete  would 
have  called  the  act  of  securing  it.  Besides 
this  I  had  a  real  exciting  adventure  with 
good  red-blooded  American  animals  and 
learned  the  lesson  that  large  horned  beasts 
which  have  not  been  taught  to  fear  man  are 
exceedingly  dangerous  to  man. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Rising  abruptly  from  the  prairie  was  a 
frowning  precipice  a  thousand  or  more  feet 
high  and  above  and  beyond  the  top  of  this 
cliff,  the  mountains. 

When  Big  Pete  told  me  that  his  park  was 
"walled  in"  he  told  me  the  mildest  sort  of 
truth;  the  prairie  is  the  bottom  of  a  wide 
canyon,  in  fact  everything  seems  to  indicate 
that  the  whole  park  had  settled,  sunk — 
"taken  a  drop"  of  a  thousand  or  more  feet; 
forming  what  miners  would  call  a  fault. 

From  the  glaciers  up  among  the  clouds 
numerous  streams  of  melted  ice  came  dashing 
down  the  sides  of  the  mountain  range,  fanciful 
cascades  leaping  without  ,  fear  from  most 
stupendous  heights  spreading  out  in  long 
horse-tail  falls  over  the  face  of  the  cliff,  doing 
everything  but  looking  real.  At  the  foot  of 

89 


90         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

each  of  the  falls  there  was  a  pool  of  deep 
water,  in  one  or  two  instances  the  pools  were 
smooth  basins  hollowed  out  of  solid  rock 
in  which  the  water  was  as  transparent  as  air 
and  but  for  the  millions  of  air  bubbles  caused 
by  the  falling  water  every  inch  of  bottom 
could  be  plainly  seen  by  an  observer  at  the 
brink  of  the  pool. 

The  trout  in  these  basins  were  almost  as 
colorless  as  the  water  itself  (the  light  color 
of  the  fish  is  due  to  their  chameleon-like 
power  of  modifying  their  hue  to  imitate  their 
surroundings) — this  mimicry  is  so  perfect 
that  after  looking  into  one  of  these  stone 
basins,  the  rounded  smooth  sides  of  which 
offered  no  shade  or  nook  where  a  trout  might 
hide,  I  was  ready  to  declare  the  waters  unin 
habited  but  no  sooner  had  my  brown  hackel 
or  professor  settled  lightly  on  the  surface  of 
the  pool  than  out  from  among  the  air  bubbles 
a  fish  appeared  and  seized  the  fly. 

My  sprained  ankle  was  now  so  much  im 
proved  that  upon  discovering  a  diagonal 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         91 

fracture  in  the  face  of  the  cliff,  which  looked 
as  if  offering  a  foot  hold,  and  feeling  reckless, 
I  determined  to  make  the  effort  to  scale  the 
wall  at  this  point. 

If  the  giant  "fault"  is  of  comparatively 
recent   occurrence,   geologically   speaking,    it 

seemed  reasonable  that  there  would  be  trout 

i 

in  the  streams  above  the  cliff  and  the  memory 
of  the  fact  that  Pete  had  reported  that  both 
Rocky  Mountain  sheep  and  goats  were  up 
there  decided  me  to  attempt  to  scale  the  wall 
by  the  fracture.  It  was  a  long,  hard  climb 
and  more  than  once  while  I  clung  to  the 
chance  projections  or  dug  my  fingers  into 
small  cracks  and  looked  down  upon  the  backs 
of  some  golden  eagle  sailing  in  spirals  below 
me,  I  regretted  making  the  fool-hardy  attempt, 
but  when  the  top  was  reached  and  I  saw 
signs  of  sheep  and  had  a  peep  at  a  white 
object  I  took  to  be  a  goat,  I  felt  repaid  for  my 
arduous  climb. 

The  elevated  prairie  or  table-land  on  which 
I  found  myself  corresponded  in  every  impor- 


92         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

tant  particular  with  the  park  below;  there 
were  the  same  natural  divisions  of  prairie 
and  forests,  the  same  erratic  boulders,  but 
on  account  of  the  difference  in  elevation  there 
was  a  corresponding  difference  in  plant  life, 
and  most  interesting  of  all  to  me,  there  were 
the  trout  streams.  The  tablelands  above 
the  park  were  comparatively  level  in  places 
where  the  stream  ran  almost  as  quietly  as  a 
meadow  brook,  but  these  level  stretches  were 
interrupted  at  short  distance  by  foaming 
rapids,  jagged  rocks  and  roaring  falls. 

My  angler's  instinct  told  me  that  the 
biggest  fish  lurked  in  the  deep  pools,  to  reach 
which  it  was  necessary  to  creep  and  worm 
myself  over  the  open  flats  of  sharp  stones 
and  patches  of  heather,  but  once  on  the  van 
tage  ground  the  swish  of  a  trout  rod  sounded 
there  for  the  first  time  since  the  dawn  of 
Creation. 

There  was  an  audible  splash  at  my  first  cast. 
My,  how  that  reel  did  sing!  Before  I  realized 
it,  my  fish  had  reached  rapid  water  and  taken 


More  than  once  while  I  clung  to  the  chance  projection  ...  I  regretted 
making  the  fool-hardy  attempt 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         93 

out  a  dangerous  amount  of  line;  still  I  dared 
not  check  him  too  severely  among  the  sharp 
rocks  and  swift  waters,  so  I  ran  along  the 
bank,  stumbling  over  stones,  but  managing 
to  avail  myself  of  every  opportunity  to  wind 
in  the  line  until  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  enough  line  on  my  reel  to  prepare  me 
for  possible  sudden  dashes  and  emergencies. 
Ah!  that  was  a  glorious  fight,  and  when  at 
last  I  was  able  to  steer  my  tired  fish  into 
shallow  water  I  saw  there  were  three  of  them, 
one  lusty  trout  on  each  of  my  three  flies. 
I  had  no  landing  net  so  I  gently  slid  the  almost 
exhausted  fish  onto  a  gravel  bar  and  as  I  did 
so  I  experienced  one  of  those  delightful  thrills 
which  comes  to  a  fellow's  lot  but  once  or  twice 
in  a  life-time.  But  it  was  not  because  I  had 
captured  three  at  a  strike,  for  I  have  done 
that  before  and  since,  but  I  thrilled  because 
they  were  not  only  a  new  and  strange  kind 
of  trout,  but  they  were  of  the  color  and  sheen 
of  newly  minted  gold.  Never  before  had  any 
man  seen  such  trout 


94        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

I  have  since  been  informed  that  I  had 
blundered  on  to  water  inhabited  by  the  rarest 
of  all  game  fish,  the  so-called  golden  trout, 
which  has  since  been  discovered  and  which 
scientists  declare  to  be  pre-glacier  fish  left 
by  some  accident  of  nature  to  exist  in  a  new 
world  in  which  all  their  original  contempo 
raries  have  long  been  extinct. 

Think  of  it!  Fish  which  had  never  seen  an 
artificial  fly  nor  had  any  family  traditions 
of  experiences  with  them.  It  is  little  wonder 
that  they  would  jump  at  a  brown  hackle,  a 
professor  or  even  a  gaudy  salmon  fly.  Why 
they  would  jump  at  a  chicken  feather!  They 
were  ready  and  eager  to  bite  at  any  sort  of 
bunco  game  I  saw  fit  to  play  upon  them. 
They  were  veritable  hayseeds  of  the  trout 
family,  but  when  they  felt  the  hook  in  their 
lips,  the  wisest  trout  in  the  world  could  not 
show  a  craftier  nor  half  as  plucky  a  fight. 
They  would  leap  from  the  water  like  small- 
mouthed  bass  and  by  shaking  their  heads, 
try  to  throw  off  the  hateful  hook. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         95 

The  constant  vigorous  exercise  of  leaping 
water-falls  and  forging  up  boiling  rapids  had 
developed  these  sturdy  mountaineer  trout 
into  prodigies  of  strength  and  endurance. 
Even  now  my  nerves  tingle  to  the  tips  of 
my  toes  as  in  fancy  I  hear  my  reel  hum  or  see 
the  tip  of  my  five  ounce  split  bamboo  bend 
so  as  to  almost  form  a  circle. 

I  fished  that  stream  with  hands  trembling 
with  excitement  and  had  filled  my  creel  with 
the  rare  fish  before  I  began  to  notice  other 
objects  of  interest.  Suddenly  I  became  aware 
of  the  presence  of  two  birds  hovering  over  and 
diving  under  the  cold  water.  They  were 
evidently  feeding  on  some  aquatic  creature 
which  my  duller  senses  could  not  discern. 

Although  they  were  the  first  of  the  kind 
that  I  had  ever  seen  alive,  I  at  once  recognized 
the  feathered  visitors  to  be  water  ouzels. 
The  birds  preceded  me  on  my  way  along  the 
water  course  towards  camp,  and  were  never 
quiet  a  minute.  They  would  hop  on  a  rock 
in  mid-stream  and  bob  up  and  down  in  a  most 


96         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

solemn  but  comical  manner  for  a  moment 
before  plunging  fearlessly  into  the  cold  white 
spray  of  the  falls  or  the  swift  dashing  current, 
where  they  would  disappear  below  the  surface 
only  to  reappear  once  more  on  another  rock  to 
bob  again. 

A  ducking  did  not  trouble  the  ouzels,  for 
as  they  came  out  of  the  water  the  liquid  rolled 
in  crystal  drops  from  their  feathers  and  their 
plumage  was  as  dry  as  if  it  had  never  been 
submerged.  The  wilder  and  swifter  the  cold 
glacier  water  ran  the  more  the  birds  seemed 
to  enjoy  it. 

The  nearer  I  approached  the  edge  of  the 
precipitous  walls,  enclosing  the  valley  com 
prising  Big  Pete's  park,  the  rougher  grew  the 
trail,  and  as  I  was  picking  my  way  I  paused 
to  gaze  at  the  distant  purple  peaks  and  watch 
the  sun  set  in  that  lonely  land  as  if  I  was 
witnessing  it  for  the  first  time.  As  my  eyes 
roamed  over  the  stupendous  distance  and 
unnamed  mountains  I  felt  my  own  puny 
insignificance,  as  who  has  not  when  confronted 
with  the  vastness  of  nature. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack         97 

I  turned  from  my  view  of  the  sunset  to 
retrace  my  steps  to  the  valley,  and  peeping 
over  the  top  of  a  large  boulder,  saw  seated 
upon  an  inaccessible  crag  directly  in  front  of 
me,  a  gigantic  figure  of  a  man  clad  in  a  hunter's 
garb,  and  he  was  smoking  a  long  cigar! 

When  I  thought  of  Big  Pete's  description 
of  how  the  Wild  Hunter  was  wont  to  sit  with 
his  long  legs  dangling  from  some  rock  while 
he  smoked  one  of  those  unprocurable  cigars, 
and  when  I  realized  that  the  figure  before  me 
was  fully  sixty  feet  tall,  I  must  confess  to 
experiencing  a  queer  sensation 

It  was  a  shadowy  figure  yet  it  moved, 
arose,  held  out  one  hand,  and  a  bird  as  large 
as  the  fabled  roc  alighted  on  the  wrist  of  the 
outstretched  hand. 

A  slight  breeze  sprang  up,  the  white  mists 
from  the  valley  rolled  up  the  mountainside 
and  drifted  away  and  the  man  and  bird 
disappeared  from  view. 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  I  reached  camp 
and  was  greeted  by  my  friend  and  guide  with 
"Gol  durn  your  pictur  tenderfut,  if  it  hain't 


98         The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

tuk  you  longer  to  get  a  pesky  mess  of  yaller 
fish  than  it  orter  to  kill  a  bar." 

"Little  wonder,"  thought  I,  "that  the 
Wild  Hunter  used  golden  bullets  in  a  land 
where  even  the  fish's  scales  seemed  to  be  of 
the  same  precious  metal";  but  I  said  nothing 
as  I  sat  down  to  clean  my  "yaller  trout/' 


CHAPTER  IX 

It  was  always  interesting  to  me  when  I 
could  get  Pete's  theories  and  his  brand  of 
philosophy  on  almost  any  subject  and  it  was 
my  intention  that  night  at  supper  to  lead  up 
to  the  apparition  I  had  seen  on  the  cliffs  that 
day.  With  a  substantial  supper  tucked  away 
I  was  in  a  better  frame  of  mind  to  realize  that 
the  illusion  I  had  seen  was  not  uncommon  in 
mountain  districts.  I  recalled  that  I  had 
read  of,  and  seen  pictures  of,  a  particular 
illusion  of  this  nature  that  is  often  present  in 
the  Hartz  Mountains  in  Germany  and  I  knew 
full  well  that  the  setting  sun,  the  mist  and  the 
atmospheric  condition  had  all  contributed 
to  throwing  a  greatly  enlarged  shadow  of  the 
real  Wild  Hunter  onto  the  screen  made  by  the 
mist  very  much  as  today  a  motion  picture 
increases  the  size  of  the  small  film  image  when 
it  is  thrown  on  the  movie  screen. 

99 


100       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

I  intended  to  get  Big  Pete's  idea  on  the 
subject  but  I  never  did  for  I  was  not  adroit 
enough  to  steer  the  conversation  in  that 
direction,  for  Big  Pete  seized  my  first  state 
ment  and  made  it  a  subject  for  a  veritable 
lecture. 

"There  was  a  smashing  lot  of  those  trout 
up  there,  Pete.  Bet  I  could  have  brought 
home  all  I  could  have  carried  if  I  had  been  a 
game  hog,"  I  said,  as  I  stirred  the  fire  with  a 
stick  and  set  the  coffee  pot  nearer  the  flames 
to  warm  a  second  cup. 

"You  see,  tenderfut,  it's  like  this,"  he  said, 
"when  a  man  goes  out  to  kill  a  deer  for  the 
fun  of  blood-spilling  or  to  get  th'  poor  critter's 
head  to  hang  in  his  shack,  he's  nothing  more 
than  a  wolf  or  butcher;  hain't  half  as  good  a 
man  as  the  one  who  never  shot  a  deer,  but 
goes  back  home  and  lies  about  it.  The  liar 
hain't  harmed  nothin'  with  his  lies.  His 
fairy  stories  don't  hurt  game  an*  they  be 
interesting  to  the  tenderfuts  in  the  States. 
The  real  sportsman  is  the  pot-hunter.  Yes, 


The  Black  Wolf •Pa^k..:,:  1.01 

that's  jist  what  I  mean,  a  pot-hunter — he's 
out  'cause  the  camp  kettle  is  empty,  and  it's 
up  agin  him  to  fill  it  or  starve.  Now  then, 
this  fellow  is  not  after  blood;  nor  trophies,  nor 
is  he  hunting  for  the  market.  It's  self- 
preservation  with  him,  that's  what  it  is. 
He's  an  animal  along  with  the  rest  of  'em  and 
he  knows  he's  got  jest  as  much  a  right  to 
live  as  tha'  have  and  no  more!  He's  hustling 
for  his  living  along  with  the  bunch,  forcing  it 
from  savage  nature,  and  I  tell  you  boy,  there 
is  no  greater  physical  pleasure  in  life  than 
holding  old  Mother  Nature  up  and  just 
saying  to  her,  'You've  got  a  living  for  me, 
ole*  gal,  and  I'm  going  to  get  it.' 

"Such  talk  pleases  the  old  lady,  makes  her 
your  friend  'cause  she  likes  your  spunk,  and 
because  of  it  she'll  give  you  the  wind  of  a  grey 
wolf,  the  step  of  the  panther,  the  strength  of 
the  buffalo  and  the  courage  of  a  lion.  She  is 
always  generous  with  her  favorites.  Ah! 
lad,  she  kin  make  your  blood  dance  in  your 
veins,  make  fire  flash  from  your  eyes  and  give 


102       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

you  the  steady  nerve  necessary  to  face  a 
she-grizzly  when  she  is  fightin'  for  her  cubs." 

"Why?  'cause  you  see,  you  are  a  grizzly 
yourself  when  the  camp  kettle  is  empty!" 
And  Big  Pete  relapsed  into  silence,  turned  his 
attention  to  his  tin  platter,  examining  it 
carefully,  and  then  with  a  piece  of  dough-god, 
carefully  wiped  the  platter  clean  and  con 
tentedly  munched  the  savory  bit. 

The  reason,  that  being  locked  into  Big  Pete's 
park  in  the  mountains  struck  me  as  being  very 
serious,  was  because  I  realized  that  although 
the  park  was  extensive  it  was  completely 
surrounded  by  a  practically  unsurmoun table 
barrier  of  rugged  cliffs  and  mountains  nego 
tiable,  as  far  as  I  knew,  not  even  by  the  sure 
footed  mountain  sheep  and  goats  which  we 
could  occasionally  see  on  the  cliffs  from  the 
valley  floor,  but  never  saw  in  the  park  itself. 
I  questioned  Big  Pete  and  found  that  he  did 
not  know  of  a  trail  up  the  cliffs. 

"Though,"  he  said,  "there  must  be  some 
sort  of  a  one  for  that  tha'  Wild  Hunter  gits 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       103 

in  an '  out  and  brings  his  wolf  pack  along  too. 
He  knows  a  trail  all  right  an'  ef  he  knows  it 
why  it's  up  to  us  to  find  it,  too." 

"Maybe  we  can  trail  him,"  I  suggested. 

"Trail  him!  Me?  With  that  wolf  pack 
clingin'  to  his  heels?  Not  while  I'm  alive!" 

That  was  the  last  that  was  said  about  trail 
ing  the  Wild  Hunter  for  some  time  to  come, 
but  meanwhile  we  built  a  more  or  less  open 
faced  permanent  camp  and  Big  Pete  initiated 
me  into  mysteries  of  real  woodcraft,  for  it  was 
up  to  us  now  to  live  on  the  land,  so  to  speak. 

Although  hard  usage  had  made  havoc  with 
my  tailormade  clothes,  neither  time  nor  the 
elements  seemed  to  affect  the  personal  appear 
ance  of  my  big  companion;  his  buckskin  suit 
was  apparently  as  clean  and  fresh  as  it  was  on 
the  day  I  first  met  him.  There  was  no  magic 
in  this.  Big  Pete  knew  how  to  clamber  all 
day  'through  a  windfall  without  leaving  the 
greater  part  of  his  clothes  on  the  branches,  a 
feat  few  hunters  and  no  tenderfoot  have  yet 
been  able  to  accomplish. 


104       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

As  I  have  already  said,  Pete  was  a  dude, 
but  he  was  what  might  be  called  a  self- 
perpetuating  dude,  who  never  ran  to  seed  no 
matter  how  long  he  might  be  separated  from 
the  city  tailor  shops,  for  Pete  was  his  own 
tailor,  barber  and  valet,  and  the  wilderness 
supplied  the  material  for  his  costume. 

In  the  camp  he  was  as  busy  as  an  old 
housewife,  and  occupied  his  leisure  time 
mending,  stitching  and  darning.  Many  a 
morning  my  own  toilet  consisted  of  a  face 
wash  at  the  spring,  but  my  guide  seldom 
failed  to  spend  as  much  time  prinking  as  if  he 
expected  distinguished  visitors! 

Instead  of  "Tenderfoot,"  Big  Pete  now 
called  me  "Le-loo,"  which  I  understand  is 
Chinook  for  wolf  and  I  took  so  much  pride  in 
my  promotion  that  I  would  not  have  changed 
clothes  with  the  Prince  of  Wales;  I  gloried  in 
my  wild,  unkempt  appearance! 

Nevertheless,  Big  Pete  announced  that  he 
was  the  Hy-as-ty-ee  (big  boss)  and  he  forthwith 
declared  that  my  costume  was  unsuitable  for 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       105 

the  approaching  cold  weather.  There  was 
no  disputing  that  Big  Pete  was  Hy-as-ty-ee 
and  I  agreed  to  wear  whatever  clothes  he 
should  make  for  me,  and  can  say  with  no  fear 
of  dispute  that  if  that  ancient  chump,  Robin 
son  Crusoe,  had  had  a  Big  Pete  for  a  partner 
in  place  of  a  man  Friday,  he  would  have  never 
made  himself  his  outlandish  goatskin  clothes 
and  a  clumsy  umbrella. 

From  a  cache  in  the  rocks  Pete  brought  forth 
a  miscellaneous  lot  of  trappers'  stores,  bone 
needles  made  from  the  splints  of  deer's  legs, 
elk's  teeth  with  holes  bored  through  them, 
and  odds  and  ends  of  all  kinds. 

Among  his  stuff  was  a  supply  of  salt-petre 
and  alum,  and  this  was  evidently  the  material 
for  which  he  was  searching  for  he  at  once 
preceeded  to  make  a  mixture  of  two  parts 
salt-petre  to  one  of  alum  and  applied  the 
pulverized  compound  to  the  fleshy  side  of  the 
skins,  then  doubling  the  raw  side  of  the  hides 
together  he  rolled  them  closely  and  placed  the 
hides  in  a  cool  place  where  they  were  allowed 


106       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

to  remain  for  several  days;  when  at  length 
unrolled,  the  skins  were  still  moist. 

"Just  right,  by  Gosh,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
took  a  dull  knife  and  carefully  removed  all 
particles  of  fat  or  flesh  which  here  and  there 
adhered  to  the  hide.  After  this  was  done 
to  his  satisfaction  we  both  took  hold  and 
rubbed,  and  mauled  and  worked  the  skins  with 
our  hands  until  the  hides  were  as  soft  and  as 
pliable  as  flannel.  Thus  was  the  material  for 
my  winter  clothing  prepared. 

It  took  four  whole  deer-skins  to  furnish 
stuff  for  my  buckskin  shirt  with  the  beautiful 
long  fringes  at  the  seams;  but  the  whole  gar 
ment  was  cut,  sewed  and  finished  in  a  day's 
time.  It  was  sewed  with  thread  made  of 
sinew. 

When  it  came  to  making  the  coat  and  trous 
ers  Big  Pete  spent  a  long  time  in  solemn 
thought  before  he  was  ready  to  begin  work  on 
these  garments;  at  length  he  looked  up  with  a 
broad  smile  and  cried: 

"See  here,  Le-loo,  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        107 

them  'ere  tenderfut  pants  o '  your'n.  Off  with 
'em  now  an '  I'll  jist  cut  out  the  new  ones  from 
the  old  uns."  In  vain  I  pleaded  with  him  to 
make  my  trousers  like  his  own;  he  would  not 
listen  to  me,  he  insisted  upon  having  my  ragged 
but  stylish  knickerbockers  to  use  as  a  pattern. 


CHAPTER  X 

Big  Pete  was  an  expert  backwoods  tailor, 
shoemaker  and  shirtmaker,  but  these  were 
but  few  of  his  accomplishments,  not  his  trade; 
he  was  first,  last  and  aways  a  hunter  and 
scout.  No  matter  what  occupation  seemed 
to  engage  his  attention  for  the  time  it  never 
interfered  with  his  ability  to  hear,  see  or  smell. 

It  was  while  I  was  going  around  camp  minus 
my  lower  garments  that  I  saw  Pete  suddenly 
throw  up  his  head  and  suspiciously  sniff  the 
air,  at  the  same  time  sharply  scanning  the 
windward  side  of  our  camp.  Living  so  long 
with  this  strange  man  made  me  familiar  with 
his  actions  and  quick  to  detect  anything 
unusual  and  I  now  knew  that  something  of 
interest  had  happened.  To  the  windward  and 
close  by  us  was  a  mound  thickly  covered  with 
bulberry  bushes  and  underbrush,  and  so  far 
as  could  be  seen  there  was  nothing  suspicious 

108 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       109 

in  the  appearance  of  the  thicket.  Fixing  my 
eyes  on  Big  Pete,  I  saw  a  peculiar  expression 
spread  over  his  face  which  seemed  to  be  half 
of  mirth  and  half  of  wonderment,  and  I 
immediately  knew  that  his  wonderful  nose 
had  warned  him  of  the  presence  of  something 
to  the  windward. 

Slowly  and  quietly  he  laid  aside  my  almost 
finished  breeches  and  silently  stole  away. 
It  was  only  a  few  minutes  before  he  returned 
with  a  very  solemn  face. 

"Doggone  my  corn  shucked  bones,  Le-loo, 
we've  had  a  visitor  but  it  got  away  mighty 
slick  and  quick.  I  hain't  determint  yit 
whether  it  wa'  man  er  beast  er  both,  er  jist  a 
thing  wha'  might  change  into  'tother.  We'll 
hafter  investigate  later.  Here  git  these  duds 


on.'1 


When  I  put  on  my  new  elk-hide  knicker 
bockers  with  cuffs  of  dressed  buckskin  laced 
around  my  calves,  and  my  beautiful  soft 
buckskin  shirt  tucked  in  at  the  waist  I  began 
to  feel  like  a  real  Nimrod,  but  after  I  added  my 


110       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"  Moo-loch-Capo,"  the  shooting  jacket  with 
elk-teeth  buttons,  pulled  a  pair  of  shank 
moccasins  over  my  feet  and  donned  a  cap 
made  of  lynx  skin,  I  was  as  happy  as  a  child 
with  its  Christmas  stocking.  It  was  a  really 
wonderful  suit  of  clothing;  the  hair  of  the  elk 
hide  was  on  the  outside,  and  not  only  made  the 
coat  and  breeches  warmer,  but  helped  to  shed 
the  rain.  The  buttons  of  the  elk-teeth  were 
fastened  on  with  thongs  run  through  holes  in 
their  centers,  and  my  coat  could  be  laced  up 
after  the  fashion  of  a  military  overcoat.  The 
elk's  teeth  served  as  frogs  and  loops  of  rawhide 
answered  for  the  braid  that  is  used  on  military 
coats. 

My  shank  moccasins  were  made  by  first 
making  a  cut  around  each  of  the  hind  legs  of  an 
elk,  at  a  sufficient  distance  above  the  heels  to 
leave  hide  enough  for  boot  legs  and  making 
another  cut  far  enough  below  the  heels  to 
make  room  for  one's  feet.  The  fresh  skins 
when  peeled  off  looked  like  rude  stockings  with 
holes  at  the  toes.  The  skins  were  turned 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       111 

\ 

wrong  side  out,  and  the  open  toes  closed  by 
bringing  the  lower  part,  or  sole,  up  over  the 
opening  and  sewing  it  there  after  the  manner  of 
a  tip  to  the  modern  shoe.  When  this  novel 
foot-^gear  was  dry  enough  for  the  purpose, 
Big  Pete  ornamented  the  legs  with  quaint 
colored  designs  made  with  split  porcupine 
quills  colored  with  dyes  which  Pete  himself 
had  manufactured  of  roots  and  barks. 

Dressed  in  my  unique  and  picturesque 
costume  I  stood  upright  while  Pete  surveyed 
me  with  the  pride  and  satisfaction  of  one  who 
had  done  a  fine  piece  of  work.  I  had  now  little 
fear  of  being  called  a  tenderfoot  and  when  I 
viewed  my  reflection  in  the  spring  I  felt  quite 
proud  of  my  appearance. 

"Come  along  now  old  scout,"  said  Pete 
viewing  me  with  the  pride  of  an  artist,  "come 
along  and  let  me  test  you  on  a  real  trail. 
I  want  to  see  what  my  teaching  has  done  for 
you." 

Pete  led  me  through  the  underbrush  to  a 
point  among  the  rocks. 


112       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"Tha*.  A  trail  begins  right  under  yore 
nose;  let's  see  what  you  make  of  it,"  he  said 
crisply. 

Down  on  all  fours  I  crept  over  the  ground 
and,  to  my  surprise  and  joy,  I  found  that  I 
could  here  and  there  detect  a  turned  leaf  the 
twist  of  which  indicated  the  direction  taken 
by  the  party  who  made  the  trail.  I  noticed 
that  the  bits  of  wood,  pine  cones  and  sticks 
scattered  around  were  darker  on  the  parts 
next  to  the  ground,  and  it  only  required 
simple  reasoning  for  me  to  conclude  that 
when  the  dark  side  was  uppermost  the  object 
had  been  recently  disturbed  and  rolled  over. 

It  was  a  day  of  great  discoveries.  I  found 
that  what  is  true  of  the  sticks  is  equally  true 
of  the  pebbles  and  a  displaced  fragment  of 
stone  immediately  caught  my  eyes.  With 
the  tenacity  of  a  bloodhound  I  stuck  to  my  task 
until  I  suddenly  found  myself  at  the  base  of 
the  park  wall,  at  the  foot  of  the  diagonal 
fracture  in  the  face  of  the  cliff  where  I  had 
climbed  when  I  discovered  the  golden  trout. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       113 

As  I  have  said,  the  fracture  led  diagonally  up 
the  towering  face  of  the  beetling  precipice. 

For  fear  that  I  might  have  made  some 
mistake  I  carefully  retraced  my  steps  back 
ward  toward  the  bullberry  bushes  near  the 
camp.  On  the  back  trail  I  came  upon  some 
distinct  and  obvious  footprints  in  a  dusty 
place,  but  so  deeply  interested  was  I  in  hidden 
signs,  the  slight  but  tell-tale  disturbances  of 
leaf  and  soil,  that  I  once  passed  these  plainly 
marked  tracks  with  only  a  glance  and  would 
have  done  so  the  second  time  had  not  their 
marked  peculiarities  accidentally  caught  my 
attention. 

When  examining  the  trail  of  this  mysterious 
camp  visitor  I  suddenly  realized  that  in  place 
of  moccasin  footprints  I  was  following  bear 
tracks,  my  heart  ceased  to  beat  for  a  moment 
or  two  before  I  could  pull  myself  together  and 
smother  the  prehensile  footed  superstitious 
old  savage  in  me  with  the  practical  philosophy 
of  the  up-to-date  man  of  today. 

Taking  a  short  cut  I  ran  back  to  the  foot  of 


114       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

the  pass  and  there,  on  hands  and  knees, 
ascended  for  a  hundred  feet  or  more — the 
bear  steps  led  up  the  pass,  and  yet  at  the 
beginning  of  the  trail  the  feet  wore  moccasins. 
This  I  knew  because  at  one  place  the  foot 
mark  showed  plainly  in  the  gray  alkali  dust 
which  had  accumulated  upon  a  projecting 
stone  a  few  feet  below  the  ledge.  Obviously 
whoever  the  visitor  was,  he  had  entered  and 
left  by  this  pass.  Returning  to  camp  I  sat 
down  on  a  log  lost  in  thought.  My  reverie 
was  at  last  broken  by  the  voice  of  my  guide 
quietly  remarking.  "Well,  Le-loo,  what's 
your  judication?" 

"Pete,"  I  said,  "that  bear  walks  on  its 
hind-legs;  there  is  not  the  sign  of  a  forefoot 
anywhere  along  the  trail.  Now  this  could 
not  be  caused  by  the  hind  feet  obliterating 
the  tracks  of  the  front  feet,  because  in  many 
places  the  pass  is  so  steep  that  the  forefeet 
in  reaching  out  for  support  would  make 
tracks  not  overlapped  by  the  hind  ones." 

"That's  true,  Le-Loo;  sartin  true.     If  you 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       115 

live  to  be  a  hundred  years  you'll  make  as 
good  a  trailer  as  the  great  Greaser  trailer  of 
New  Mexico,  Dolores  Sanchez,  or  my  old 
friend  Bill  Hassler,  who  could  follow  a  six- 
month-old  trail,"  replied  my  guide.  "But," 
he  continued,  "maybe  witch-bears  do  walk  on 
their  hind  legs  same  as  people.'5 

"Witch  be  blamed!"  I  cried  impatiently; 
"this  is  no  four-legged  witch  nor  bear  either. 
That  was  a  man  and  when  he  thought  he 
would  be  followed  he  put  on  moccasins  made 
from  bears'  paws  to  leave  a  disguised  trail. 
And  moreover  I  believe  that  man  is  none  other 
than  the  Wild  Hunter  without  his  wolf  pack. 
And  that  pass  is  the  pathway  he  takes  in  and 
out  of  this  park.  I'm  going  to  trail  him 
whether  you  want  to  or  not.  Goodbye  Pete, 
I'll  come  back  for  you,"  and  picking  up  my  gun 
and  other  necessary  traps,  I  prepared  to  start 
immediately  upon  my  journey,  for  I  felt  that 
to  follow  this  trail  would  not  only  get  us  out  of 
our  park  prison  but  would  lead  me  to  the 
abode  of  the  Wild  Hunter,  where  perhaps  I 


116       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

could  talk  with  him  and  learn  some  of  the 
things  I  was  so  eager  to  know  about  my 
parents. 

Big  Pete  looked  at  me  solemnly  for  a  while, 
ran  over  the  cartridges  in  his  belt  and  went 
through  all  those  familiar  unconscious  motions 
which  betokened  danger  ahead,  and  said, 
"Le-loo,  you  are  a  quare  critter;  you're  not 
afraid  of  all  the  werwolves,  medicine  ba'rs  and 
ghosts  in  this  world  or  the  next,  but  tarnally 
af eared  of  live  varmints  like  grizzly  bars — one 
would  think  you  had  no  religion,  but,  gosh  all 
hemlock!  If  you  can  face  a  bear-man  or  a 
werwolf,  even  though  all  the  Hy-as  Ecutocks 
of  the  mountains  show  fight,  I'll  be  cornfed 
if  I  don't  stand  by  ye!  Barring  the  Wild 
Hunter,  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  ran  agin  a 
Ecutock  yit;  that  is  if  he  be  a  Ecutock. 
Maybe  he's  a  Econe?  Yes,  I  reckon  that's 
what  he  is,"  continued  Pete  reflectively. 

"Maybe  he  is  a  pine  cone,"  I  laughed. 
Then  added,  "Whatever  he  is,  he  knows  the 
way  out  of  this  park  of  yours  and  I  am  going 
to  follow  him,"  I  emphatically  answered. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       117 

"That's  howsomever!"  exclaimed  my  guide 
approvingly;  "but/*  he  continued,  "the  moun 
tains  are  kivered  with  snow,  while  it  is  still 
summer  down  here,  so  I  reckon  'twould  be 
the  proper  wrinkle  for  us  to  pull  our  things 
together,  have  a  good  feed  and  a  good  sleep 
before  we  start.  White  men  start  off  hot 
headed  and  I  kinder  like  their  grit,  but  Injuns 
stop  and  sot  by  the  fire  an'  smoke  an'  think 
afore  they  start  on  a  raid  an'  I  kinder  think 
they  be  wiser  in  this  than  we  'uns,  so  let's  do 
as  the  Injuns  would  do.  We  can  cache  most 
of  our  stuff  and  turn  the  horses  loose.  Big 
horn's  mutton  is  powerful  good,  but  tarnally 
shy  and  hung  mighty  high,  an'  billy  goat  is 
doggoned  strong  'nless  you  know  how  to  cook 
'em.  Yes,  we'll  eat  an  sleep  fust  an'  then 
hie  for  the  land  where  the  Bighorn  pasture, 
the  woolywhite  goats  sleep  on  the  rocks,  the 
whistling  marmot  blows  his  danger  signal  an' 
the  pretty  white  ptarmigan  hides  hisself  in 
the  snow-banks,  the  home  of  the  Ecutocks. 

"What  the  thunder  is  a  Ecutock,  Pete?" 
I  asked. 


118       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"An  Injun  devil,  I  reckon  you'd  call  it; 
it's  bad  medicine,"  he  answered  soberly,  and 
continuing  in  his  former  strain,  he  exclaimed: 

"Whar  critters  like  goats,  sheeps  and  rock- 
chucks  kin  live,  you  bet  your  Hy-as  muck- 
a-muck  we  kin  live  too!" 

That  night  I  rolled  up  into  my  blanket, 
filled  with  strange  presentiments.  Again  the 
question  came  up:  What  is  the  source  of  the 
influence  that  this  madman  of  the  mountains, 
this  wild  hunter,  this  leader  of  the  black  wolf 
pack,  had  on  me  to  impel  me  to  trail  him  over 
the  mountains?  Was  it  mental  telepathy? 
Could  he  really  be  my  father?  Somehow  I 
felt  convinced  that  soon  I  would  be  face  to 
face  with  the  riddle,  soon  I  would  know  the 
facts  and  the  truth  about  my  parents.  It 
seemed  unthinkable  that  all  these  weeks  of 
wilderness  travel  had  been  for  naught  and 
that  the  Wild  Hunter  was  nothing  but  a 
strange,  eccentric  old  fellow  living  alone  in 
the  mountains  and  ot  no  interest  to  me 
whatsoever. 


CHAPTER  XI 

We  made  our  start  at  daylight,  loaded  with 
all  the  necessities  for  a  climb  over  the  moun 
tains.  The  rest  of  our  supplies  and  equipment 
we  cached,  and  Big  Pete  turned  our  horses 
loose  assuring  me  that  in  the  spring  he  would 
come  back  and  rope  them. 

The  lower  trail  of  the  pass  was  quite  well 
defined  and  we  made  famous  progress,  but 
the  higher  we  climbed  the  more  difficult  the 
going  became  and  more  than  once  we  were 
forced  to  pause  on  a  ledge  to  rest  and  regain 
our  breath. 

On  one  ledge  I  got  my  first  really  close  view 
of  a  bighorn  sheep,  and  I  became  so  excited 
that  nothing  would  do  but  I  must  stalk  him, 
despite  Big  Pete's  assurance  that  the  wily 
old  ram  would  not  let  me  get  within  gun  shot 
of  him  in  such  an  exposed  area. 

I  crawled,  and  wriggled,  and  twisted  over 

119 


120       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

rock  and  boulders  for  what  to  me  seemed  miles, 
but  always  the  sheep  kept  just  out  of  accurate 
shooting  distance  ahead  of  me.  It  was  an 
exasperating  chase,  but  one  cannot  live  in 
the  mountains  for  any  length  of  time  without 
paying  more  or  less  attention  to  geology;  the 
mountaineer  soon  learns  that  stratified  rock, 
that  is  rock  arranged  like  layer  cake,  resting 
in  a  horizontal  position  on  its  natural  bed, 
makes  travel  over  its  top  comparatively  easy, 
but  when  by  the  subsidence  or  upheaval  of 
the  earth's  crust  huge  masses  of  stone  have 
been  tilted  up  edgewise,  it  is  an  entirely 
different  proposition. 

In  this  latter  case  the  erosion,  or  the  wearing 
away,  caused  by  trickling  water,  frost  and 
snow,  sharpens  the  edge  of  the  rock,  as  a 
grindstone  does  the  edge  of  an  ax,  and  traveling 
along  one  of  these  ridges  presents  almost  the 
same  difficulties  that  travel  along  the  edge  of 
an  upturned  ax  would  do  to  a  microscopic  man. 

But  when  a  sportsman,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  has  succeeded  in  creeping  within 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       121 

range  of  a  grand  bighorn  ram,  and  his  bullet, 
speeding  true,  has  badly  wounded  the  game, 
hardships  are  forgotten,  and  if,  on  account 
of  the  miraculous  vitality  of  the  mountain 
sheep,  there  is  danger  of  losing  the  quarry, 
all  the  inborn  instinct  of  the  predaceous 
beast  in  man's  nature  is  aroused,  and  danger 
is  a  consideration  not  to  be  taken  in  account. 

A  hawk  in  pursuit  of  a  barnyard  fowl  will 
follow  it  into  the  open  door  of  the  farmhouse; 
the  hound  in  pursuit  of  the  fox  cares  not  for 
the  approaching  locomotive — being  possessed 
by  the  instinct  to  kill — nothing  is  of  impor 
tance  to  them  but  the  capture  of  the  game  in 
sight.  A  man  following  a  buck  is  governed 
by  a  like  singleness  of  purpose. 

For  this  reason  I  was  scrambling  along  the 
knife-like  edge  of  the  ridge,  with  death  in  the 
steep  treacherous  slide  rock  on  one  side, 
death  in  the  steep  green  glacier  ice  on  the 
other  side,  and  torture  and  wounds  under  my 
feet. 

But  the  fever  of  the  chase  had  possession 


122       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

of  me.  I  had  tasted  blood  and  felt  the  fierce 
joy  of  the  puma  and  the  wild  intoxication  of  a 
hunting  wolf! 

The  cruel  wounds  inflicted  by  the  sharp 
stones  under  my  feet  were  unnoticed.  Away 
ahead  of  me  was  a  moving  object;  it  could 
use  but  three  legs,  but  that  was  one  leg  more 
than  I  had,  and  the  ram  had  distanced  me. 
After  an  age  of  time  I  reached  the  rugged, 
broader  footing  of  the  mountain  side,  and 
creeping  up  behind  some  sheltering  rocks  again 
fired  at  the  fleeing  ram.  With  the  impact  of 
the  bullet  the  sheep  fell  headlong  down 
a  cliff  to  a  projecting  rock  thirty  feet  below, 
where  it  lay  apparently  dead.  A  moment 
later  it  again  arose,  seemingly  as  able  as  ever, 
and  ran  along  the  face  of  the  beetling  rock 
where  my  eyes,  aided  by  powerful  field  glasses, 
could  perceive  no  foothold;  then  it  gave  a 
magnificent  leap  to  a  ledge  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  narrow  canyon  and  fell  dead,  out 
of  my  reach. 

Spent  with  my  long,  rough  run,  I  naturally 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       123 

selected  the  most  comfortable  seat  in  which  to 
rest;  this  chanced  to  be  a  cushion  of  heather- 
like  plants  along  the  side  of  a  fragment  of 
rock  which  effectually  concealed  my  body  from 
view  from  the  other  side  of  the  chasm.  Here, 
on  the  verge  of  that  impassable  canyon,  I  sat 
panting  and  looking  at  the  poor  dead  creature 
upon  the  opposite  side;  its  right  front  leg  was 
shattered  at  the  shoulder,  a  bullet  had  pierced 
its  lungs.  Yet,  with  two  fatal  wounds  and  a 
useless  leg,  the  plucky  creature  had  scaled 
the  face  of  a  cliff*  which  one  would  think  a 
squirrel  would  find  impossible  to  traverse 
and  made  leaps  which  might  well  be  consid 
ered  improbable  for  a  perfectly  sound  animal. 
The  ram  was  dead  and  food  for  the  ravens, 
and  a  reaction  had  taken  place  in  my  mind; 
I  felt  like  a  bloody  murderer,  and  hung  my 
head  with  a  sense  of  guilt. 

Presently,  becoming  conscious  of  that  pecu 
liar  guttural  noise,  used  by  Big  Pete  when 
desiring  caution,  and  looking  up  I  was  amazed 
to  see  a  splendid  Indian  youth  climb  down  the 


124       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

face  of  the  opposite  cliff,  throw  his  arms  around 
the  dead  ram's  neck  and  burst  into  deep  but 
subdued  lamentation.  For  the  first  time  I  now 
saw  that  what  I  had  mistaken  for  a  blood 
stain  on  the  bighorn's  neck  was  a  red  collar. 

Cautiously  producing  my  field  glasses  I 
examined  the  collar  and  discovered  it  to  be 
made  of  stained  porcupine  quills  cleverly 
worked  on  a  buckskin  band.  The  field  glasses 
also  told  me  that  the  boy's  shirt  was  trimmed 
with  the  same  material,  while  a  duplicate 
of  the  sheep's  collar  formed  a  band  which 
encircled  his  head,  confining  the  long  black 
hair  and  preventing  it  from  falling  over  his 
face,  but  leaving  it  free  to  hang  down  his  back 
to  a  point  below  the  waist  line. 

So  absorbed  was  I  in  this  unique  spectacle 
that  I  carelessly  allowed  my  elbow  to  dislodge 
a  loose  fragment  of  stone  which  went  clattering 
down  the  face  of  the  precipice.  This  proved 
to  be  almost  fatal  carelessness,  for,  with  a 
movement  as  quick  as  the  stroke  of  a  rattle 
snake,  the  lad  placed  an  arrow  to  the  string 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       125 

of  a  bow  and  sent  the  barbed  shaft  with  such 
force,  promptitude  and  precision  that  it  went 
through  my  fur  cap,  the  arrow  entangling  a 
bunch  of  my  hair,  taking  it  along  with  it. 

"Squat  lower,  Le-loo;  arrows  has  been  the 
death  of  many  a  man  afore  you,"  whispered 
Big  Pete  in  my  ear,  but  even  as  he  spoke 
another  arrow  sang  over  our  crouching  bodies, 
shaving  the  protecting  rock  so  closely  that 
their  plumed  tips  brushed  the  dust  on  our 
backs. 

"Waugh!  Good  shootin',  by  gum!  I  never 
seed  it  beat;  if  he  onct  sots  them  black  eyes 
on  our  hulking  carcasses  he'll  get  us  yit," 
muttered  my  guide,  enthusiastically.  "He's 
mighty  slender,  quick  and  purty — but  so  also 
be  a  rattlesnake!"  he  exclaimed,  as  another 
arrow  slit  the  sleeve  of  his  wamus  as  cleanly 
as  if  it  were  cut  with  a  knife. 

"For  God's  sake,  stop!"  I  shouted,  in  real 
alarm.  The  boy  paused,  but  with  an  arrow 
still  drawn  to  its  head.  His  eyes  flashing, 
head  erect,  one  moccasined  foot  on  the  ram's 


126       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

body,  the  other  braced  against  the  cliff;  his 
short  fawn-colored  skin  shirt  clung  to  his 
lithe  body,  and  the  fringed  edges  hung  over 
the  dreadful  black  chasm  in  front  of  him. 
It  was  a  picture  to  take  away  one's  breath. 
"Put  down  your  weapon,  and  we  will  stand 
with  our  hands  up,"  I  cried.  Slowly  the  bow 
was  lowered  and  as  slowly  Big  Pete  and  I 
arose,  holding  our  empty  hands  aloft.  "Now, 
young  fellow,  tell  us  your  pleasure." 

There  are  a  few  gray  hairs  showing  at  my 
temples  which  first  made  their  appearance 
while  I  was  crouching  behind  that  stone  on 
the  edge  of  the  chasm. 

To  my  polite  inquiry  asking  his  pleasure, 
the  wild  boy  made  no  reply  but  glanced  at  us 
with  the  utmost  contempt  when  Big  Pete 
went  through  some  gestures  in  Indian  sign 
language.  The  lad  mutely  pointed  to  the 
dead  sheep,  the  sight  of  which  seemed  to 
enrage  him  again,  for  insensibly  his  fingers 
tightened  on  the  bow  and  the  wood  began  to 
curve  after  a  manner  which  sent  me  ducking 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       127 

behind  the  sheltering  stone  again;  but  Big 
Pete  only  folded  his  arms  across  his  broad 
chest  and  looked  the  boy  straight  in  the  eyes. 
Never  will  I  forget  that  picture,  the  cold, 
bleak,  snow-covered  mountains  towering  above 
them,  the  black  abyss  of  Sheol  between  them; 
neither  would  hesitate  to  take  life,  neither 
possessed  a  fear  of  death;  but  with  every 
muscle  alert  and  every  nerve  alive  these  two 
wild  things  stood  facing  each  other,  mutually 
observing  a  truce  because  of — what?  Because, 
in  spite  of  the  righting  instinct  or,  maybe, 
because  of  it  they  both  secretly  admired  each 
other. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  black  chasm  which  separated  us  from 
the  trail  of  the  wild  hunter  was  not  as  formid 
able  a  barrier  as  the  unfathomable  abyss 
which  separates  the  reader  from  what  he  thinks 
he  would  have  done  had  he  been  in  my  place, 
and  what  really  would  have  been  his  plan  of 
action. 

There  were  a  lot  of  burning  questions  which 
I  had  privately  made  up  in  my  mind  to  pro 
pound  to  the  Wild  Hunter,  or  the  even  wilder 
medicine  bear,  upon  the  occasion  of  our  next 
meeting.  But  when  the  lad  was  standing 
before  me,  with  bended  bow  and  flashing 
eyes,  the  burning  importance  of  those  ques 
tions  did  not  appeal  to  me  as  forcibly  as  did 
the  urgent  necessity  of  sheltering  my  body 
behind  the  friendly  stone.  To  be  truthful,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  the  proposed  inquiries 
were,  for  the  time,  entirely  forgotten,  and 

128 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       129 

I  even  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  boy 
suddenly  clambered  up  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
turned,  gave  us  a  fierce  look  of  defiance,  made 
some  quick  energetic  gestures  with  his  hand 
and  disappeared. 

He  scaled  that  precipitous  rock  with  the 
rapidity  and  self-confidence  of  a  gray  squirrel 
running  up  the  trunk  of  a  hickory  tree,  squirrel- 
like,  taking  advantage  of  every  crack,  cranny 
and  projection  that  could  be  grasped  by 
fingers  or  moccasin-covered  toes. 

Not  until  the  Indian  had  disappeared  down 
a  dry  coulee  did  I  venture  from  the  shelter 
of  the  protecting  rock,  or  realize  that  my 
carefully  planned  interview  must  be  indefi 
nitely  postponed. 

With  his  arms  folded  across  his  chest,  his 
blond  hair  sweeping  his  shoulders,  his  blue 
eyes  fixed  upon  a  rocky  rib  of  the  mountain 
behind  which  the  boy  had  disappeared,  Big 
Pete  still  stood  like  a  statue.  But  gradually 
the  statuesque  pose  resolved  itself  into  a 
more  commonplace  posture,  and  the  muscles 


130       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

of  the  face  relaxed  until  the  familiar  twinkle 
hovered  around  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 
"What  did  he  say  when  he  made  those 
motions,  Pete?" 

"Waugh!  he  said  he  was  not  afraid  of  any 
whitefaced  coyote  like  us."  And  bringing 
forth  his  pipe,  Pete  filled  it  from  the  beaded 
tobacco  pouch  which  hung  on  his  breast,  and 
by  means  of  a  horn  of  punk,  a  flint  and  steel, 
he  soon  had  the  pipe  aglow  and  was  puffing 
away  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  unusual  had 
occurred.  Presently  he  exclaimed,  "Gol  durn 
his  daguerrotype,  what  good  did  it  do  him  to 
throw  that  sheep  down  the  gulch?  Reckon 
Le-loo  and  me  could  find  a  better  grave  for 
mutton  chops  than  that  canyon  bottom.  The 
mountains  didn't  need  the  sheep  an'  we  did. 
But,  I  reckon  it  was  his  own  sheep  you  killed, 
'cause  it  had  a  porcupine  collar  same  pattern 
as  the  trimmings  of  his  shirt." 

Turning  his  great  blue  eyes  full  upon  me, 
he  suddenly  shot  this  inquiry,  "Be  he  bar, 
ecutock  or  werwolf?" 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       131 

"He  is  the  finest  adjusted,  easiest  running, 
most  exquisitely  balanced,  highest  geared  bit 
of  human  machinery  I  ever  saw,"  I  answered 
enthusiastically. 

"Wall,  maybe  ye  are  right,  Le-loo,  an' 
maybe  ye  hain't;  which  is  catamount  to 
saying,  maybe  it  is  a  man  and  maybe  it 


tain't." 


"Steady,  Pete,  old  fellow,  let  us  go  slow; 
now  tell  me  at  what  you're  driving?"  I 
pleaded. 

"It  looks  to  me  this  hea'-a-way,"  he 
explained.  "I've  seed  his  trail  onct  or  twice, 
an'  I've  seed  him  onct,  but  I  never  yet  seed 
his  trail  and  the  Wild  Hunter's  trail  at  the 
same  time  and  place.  'Pears  to  me  that 
a  man  who,  when  it's  convenient,  kin  make 
a  wolf  of  hisself,  might  likewise  make  a  boy 
of  hisself  whenever  he  felt  that  way.  Never 
heared  tell  on  enny  real  laid  who  cud  climb 
like  a  squtton  and  shoot  a  bow  better  nor 
a  Robin  Hood  or  Injun,  and  that's  how- 
somever!" 


132        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

"Well,  it  does  look  chowsomever,'  and  no 
mistake,"  I  admitted,  "and  what  makes  it 
worse,  our  dinner  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
infernal  gulch.  Come,  let  us  be  moving;  the 
breeze  from  the  snowfields  chills  me.  Let  us 
hit  his  trail  now  while  it  is  fresh." 

This  was  a  simple  proposition  to  make,  but 
a  difficult  one  to  carry  into  execution;  for  to 
all  appearances  that  trail  began  upon  the 
other  side  of  the  chasm,  and  there  was  no 
bridge  in  sight  by  which  we  could  cross. 
Big  Pete  carefully  put  a  cork-stopper  in  his 
pipe,  extinguishing  the  fire  without  wasting 
the  unconsumed  contents;  he  then  carefully 
put  his  briarwood  away  and  began  to  uncoil 
a  lariat  from  around  his  middle.  As  he 
loosened  the  braided  rawhide  from  his  waist  his 
gaze  was  roaming  over  the  opposite  rocks. 
Presently  he  fixed  his  attention  upon  a  pin 
nacle  which  reared  its  cube-like  form  above 
the  top  of  the  opposite  side  of  the  chasm;  the 
latter  was  of  itself  much  higher  than  the  brink 
upon  which  we  stood.  Swinging  the  loop 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       133 

around  his  head  he  sent  it  whistling  across  the 
chasm,  where  it  settled  and  encircled  the 
projecting  stone,  the  honda  striking  the  face 
of  the  cliff  with  a  sullen  thud.  The  rope 
tightened,  but  when  we  both  threw  our 
weight  on  our  end  of  the  lariat  to  try  it,  the 
cube-like  pinnacle  moved  on  its  base. 

"I  oughter  knowed  better  than  to  try  to 
lasso  a  piece  of  slide  rock,"  said  Pete  in 
disgusted  tones,  as  he  cast  the  end  of  the 
braided  rawhide  loose  and  watched  it  for  a 
moment  dangling  down  the  opposite  side  of 
the  canyon. 

"Now,  Le-loo,  we  must  get  over  this  hole  or 
lose  the  best  lariat  in  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
We  kin  look  for  that  boy's  trail  on  this  side, 
for  even  if  he  be  an  Ecutock,  I'll  bet  my  crooker 
bone  'gainst  a  lock  of  his  hair  that  he  can't 
jump  th'  hole,  an'  I'll  wager  my  left  ear  that 
he's  got  a  trail  an'  a  bridge  somewhar — - 
'nless  he  turns  bird  and  flops  over  things  like 
this,"  he  added,  with  a  troubled  look. 

"Pete,"    said    I,    "never    mind    the    bird 


134        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

business.  I'll  admit  that  there  is  a  lot  of 
explanation  due  us  before  we  can  rightly 
judge  on  the  events  of  the  past  few  weeks; 
still  I  think  it  may  all  be  explained  in  a 
rational  manner;  but  what  if  it  cannot? 
We  have  but  one  trip  to  make  through  this 
world,  and  the  more  we  see  the  more  we  will 
know  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  I  am  as 
curious  as  a  prong-horned  antelope  when 
there  is  a  mystery,  so  put  your  nose  to  the 
ground,  my  good  friend,  and  find  the  spot 
where  this  Mr.  Werwolf,  witch,  or  bear 
flies  the  canyon,  and  maybe,  like  the  husband 
of  'The  Witch  of  Fife/  we  may  find  the 
'black  crook  shell,'  and  with  its  aid  fly  out 
of  this  'him." 

"I  believe  your  judication  is  sound,  Le-loo; 
stay  where  you  be  an'  if  he  hain't  a  witch 
I'll  bet  my  front  tooth  agin  the  string  of  his 
moccasin  that  I'll  find  the  bridge,  and  I'll 
swear  by  my  grandmother's  hind  leg  that  that 
little  imp  will  pay  for  our  sheep  yit." 

As  Pete  finished  these  remarks  there  was  a 
sudden  and  astonishing  change  in  his  appear- 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       135 

ance.  His  head  fell  forward,  his  shoulders 
drooped,  his  back  bowed  and  his  knee  bent. 
It  was  no  longer  the  upright  statuesque 
Pete  the  Mountaineer,  but  Peter  the  Trailer, 
all  of  whose  faculties  were  concentrated  upon 
the  ground.  With  a  swinging  gait  the  human 
bloodhound  traveled  swiftly  and  silently  along 
the  edge  of  the  crevasse,  noting  every  bunch 
of  moss,  fragment  of  stone,  drift  of  snow  or  bit 
of  moist  earth,  reading  the  shorthand  notes  of 
Nature  with  facility  which  far  excelled  the 
ability  of  my  own  stenographer  to  read  her 
own  notes  when  the  latter  are  a  few  hours 
old.  But  a  short  time  had  elapsed  before  I 
heard  a  shout,  and,  hurrying  to  the  place  where 
my  big  friend  was  seated,  I  inquired,  "Any 
luck?" 

"Tha's  as  you  may  call  it.  Here  is  wha' 
tha'  boy  jumped,"  he  replied,  pointing  to 
some  marks  on  the  stone  which  were  imper 
ceptible  to  me,  "an*  tha's  wha'  he  landed," 
he  continued,  pointing  to  a  slight  ledge  upon 
the  face  of  the  opposite  cliff  at  least  twenty 
feet  distant.  "He's  a  jumper,  an'  no  mistake 


136       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

— guess  I  might  as  well  have  my  front  tooth 
pulled,  fur  I've  lost  my  bet/'  soliloquized 
the  trailer,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
with  his  legs  hanging  over  the  frightful  chasm. 

The  ledge  indicated  by  Big  Pete  as  the 
landing  place  of  the  phenomenal  jumper  might 
possibly  have  offered  a  foothold  for  a  bighorn 
or  goat,  but  I  could  not  believe  that  any 
human  being  could  jump  twenty  feet  to  a 
crumbling  trifle  of  a  ledge  on  the  face  of  a 
precipice,  and  not  only  retain  a  foothold 
there,  but  run  up  the  face  of  the  rock  like  a 
fly  on  a  window-pane.  Yet  I  could  see  that 
something  had  worn  the  ledge  at  the  point 
indicated  and  when  I  stood  a  little  distance 
away  from  the  trail  I  could  plainly  note  a 
difference  in  color  marking  the  course  of  the 
trail  where  it  led  over  the  flinty  rocks  to  the 
jumping  place. 

"Wull,  Le-loo!  What's  your  opinion  of 
the  Ecutock  now?  Do  he  use  wings  or  ride 
a  barleycorn  broom?"  asked  Pete,  with  a 
triumphant  smile. 


CHAPTER  Xin 

Apparently  there  was  no  possible  way  by 
which  we  might  hope  to  cross  the  canyon, 
and  I  threw  myself  prone  upon  the  top  of  the 
stony  brink  of  the  chasm  and  peered  down  the 
awful  abyss  at  the  silver  thread,  shining  in 
the  gloom  of  the  shadows,  which  marked  the 
course  of  a  stream,  and  wondered  what  the 
Boy  Scouts  of  Troop  6  of  Marlborough 
would  do  under  the  circumstances. 

I  studied  the  face  of  the  opposite  cliff  in  a 
vain  search  for  some  hint  to  the  solution  of 
the  problem  before  us,  looking  up  and  down 
from  side  to  side  as  far  as  allowed  by  the 
range  of  my  vision.  At  length  my  attention 
wandered  to  the  perpendicular  face  of  the 
cliff,  on  the  top  of  which  my  body  was 
sprawled;  there  was  an  upright  crack  in  the 
face  of  the  stone  wall,  and  as  I  examined  the 
fracture  I  saw  that  a  piece  of  wood  had  lodged 

137 


138       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

in  the  crack;  a  piece  of  wood  in  a  crevice  in  a 
rock  is  not  so  unusual  an  occurrence  as  to 
excite  remark;  but  when  it  occurred  to  me 
that  we  were  then  far  above  the  timber  line, 
my  interest  and  curiosity  were  at  once 
aroused. 

The  end  of  the  stick  was  within  a  short 
distance  from  my  hand,  and  reaching  down 
I  grasped  the  wood  and  brought  forth,  not  a 
short  club  or  stick,  as  I  thought  to  be  con 
cealed  there,  but  a  very  long  pole.  The  result 
of  my  investigations  was  so  unexpected  that 
I  came  dangerously  near  allowing  the  thing 
to  slide  through  my  fingers  and  fall  to  the 
bottom  of  the  canyon.  It  was  a  neatly- 
smoothed,  slender  piece  of  lodge-pole  pine 
which  was  brought  to  view,  and  it  had  a 
crooked  root  nicely  spliced  to  one  end  and 
bound  tightly  in  place  with  rawhide  thongs. 
Big  Pete  was  wholly  absorbed  in  the  trail, 
the  study  of  which  he  had  resumed,  and 
when  I  looked  up  he  was  down  on  all  fours, 
minutely  studying  the  ground.  Presently 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       139 

he  cried,  "Le-loo,  tha'  pesky  lad  ha*  been 
over  wha'  you  be  after  sompen  and  he  took 
it  back  tha'  again  afore  he  made  his  jump! 
If  you're  any  good  you'll  find  what  the  lad 
was  after." 

"He  was  after  his  barleycorn  broomstick," 
I  replied,  proudly,  "and  here  it  is,  although 
I  must  confess  it  is  a  pretty  long  one  for  a 
fellow  of  his  size,  and  it  looks  more  like  a 
giant  Bo-Peep's  crook  than  a  witch's  broom." 

Big  Pete  eagerly  snatched  the  pole  from 
my  hands  and  examined  it  carefully.  At 
length  he  said,  "This  hyer  is  the  end  used  for 
the  handle;  one  can  see  by  the  finger  marks, 
an'  this  crook  is  used  to  scrape  stone  with, 
one  kin  see,  with  half  an  eye,  by  the  way  the 
end  is  sandpapered  ofF.  Over  tha'  air  some 
marks  on  the  stone  which  look  almighty  like 
as  if  they'd  been  made  by  the  end  of  this  yer 
hook  slipping  down  the  face  of  the  rock. 

"Now,  I  wonder  wha'  cud  be  up  tha'  on 
the  top  of  the  rock  that  the  boy  wanted," 
mused  Big  Pete,  and  for  a  moment  or  so  he 


140       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

stood  in  silent  thought;  at  length  he  exclaimed, 
"Why,  bless  my  corn-shucking  soul,  if  I 
don't  believe  he's  got  a  lariat  staked  out  tha' 
an'  crosses  this  ditch  same  as  we-uns  aimed 
to  do!"  With  that  he  began  raking  and 
scraping  the  top  of  the  opposite  rock  with  the 
shepherd's  crook,  and  presently  there  came 
tumbling  and  twisting  like  a  snake  down  the 
face  of  the  cliff,  a  long  braided  rawhide  rope 
with  a  loop  at  the  bottom  end. 

"Waugh,  Le-loo!  tha's  no  witchcraft  'bout 
this  'cep  the  magic  of  common-sense;  but 
we  hain't  through  with  him  yit!"  By  this 
time  Pete  had  the  end  of  the  rawhide  rope 
in  his  hands  and  was  testing  the  strength  of  its 
anchorage  upon  the  opposite  cliff.  The  point 
where  it  was  fastened  projected  some  distance 
over  the  ledge,  where  the  supposed  landing- 
place  was  located,  thus  making  it  possible  for 
one  to  swing  at  the  end  of  the  rope  from  our 
side  without  danger  of  coming  into  too  violent 
contact  with  the  opposite  cliff. 

As  soon  as  my  big  friend  was  satisfied  that 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       141 

the  rope  was  safe  he  grasped  it  with  his  two 
hands,  and  with  one  foot  in  the  loop  and  the 
other  free  to  use  as  a  fender,  he  sailed  across 
the  abyss  and  landed  safely  upon  the  crumbling 
ledge  opposite. 

Holding  fast  to  the  rawhide  rope  with  his 
hands  and  bracing  his  feet  against  the  rock, 
Pete  could  walk  up  the  face  of  the  cliff  by 
going  hand-over-hand  up  the  cable  at  the 
same  time.  He  had  almost  reached  the  top 
when  I  was  horror-stricken  to  see  a  small 
hand  and  brown  arm  reach  over  the  precipice; 
but  it  was  neither  the  grace  nor  the  beauty 
of  this  shapely  bit  of  anatomy  which  sent  the 
blood  surging  to  my  heart,  but  the  fact  that 
the  cold  gray  glint  of  a  long-bladed  knife 
caught  my  eyes  and  fascinated  me  with  the 
fabled  "charm"  of  a  serpent.  The  power 
of  speech  forsook  me,  but  with  great  effort  I 
succeeded  in  giving  utterance  to  the  inarticu 
late  noise  people  gurgle  when  confronted  in 
their  sleep  by  a  shapeless  horror.  Big  Pete 
heard  the  noise,  but  he  was  not  unnerved 


142       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

when  he  saw  the  knife,  neither  did  he  show 
any  nightmare  symptoms,  although  he  was 
dangling  over  the  terrible  abyss  with  a  full 
knowledge  that  it  needed  but  a  touch  of  the 
keen  blade  of  that  knife  to  sever  the  straining 
lariat  and  dash  him,  a  mangled  mass,  on  the 
rocks  below.  The  danger  was  too  real  to  give 
Pete  the  nightmare;  there  was  nothing  spooky 
to  him  in  the  glittering  knife  blade,  and  only 
ghosts  and  the  supernatural  could  give  Big 
Pete  the  nightmare.  Calmly  he  looked  at 
the  hand  grasping  the  power  of  death  with  its 
strong  tapering  fingers.  Suddenly  and  in  a 
firm,  commanding  voice  he  gave  the  order, 
"Drap  tha'  knife!" 

Ever  since  I  had  been  in  the  company  of 
this  masterful  forest  companion  I  had  obeyed 
his  commands  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  so 
was  not  surprised  to  see  the  fingers  instantly 
relax  their  grasp  and  the  knife  go  gyrating  to 
the  mysterious  depths.  In  a  few  moments 
Big  Pete  was  up  and  over  the  edge  of  the 
rock  and  hidden  from  my  view. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       143 

Seizing  the  long-handled  shepherd's  crook, 
I  caught  the  dangling  end  of  the  lariat,  and 
was  soon  scrambling  up  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
leaving  a  trail  which  the  veriest  novice  would 
not  fail  to  notice  and  sending  showers  of  the 
crumbling  stones  down  the  path  taken  by  the 
knife;  it  was  several  minutes  before  I  had 
clambered  over  the  face  of  the  projecting  crag 
and  was  safe  across  the  black  chasm  which 
lay  athwart  our  trail. 

If  the  Wild  Hunter  was  indeed  my  father, 
he  certainly  was  a  woodcrafter  and  scout  to 
bring  pride  to  a  fellow's  heart,  for  I  doubted 
not  that  the  Indian  boy  was  his  retainer 
because  the  porcupine  quill  decorations  on 
his  buckskin  shirt  had  the  same  peculiar 
pattern  as  that  on  the  wamus  of  the  Wild 
Hunter  himself  as  well  as  on  the  collar  of  the 
pet  sheep  I  had  killed,  and  also  on  the  buck 
skin  bag  of  gold. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Only  those  persons  who  have  made  solitary 
trips  over  snow-capped  mountain  ridges  can 
appreciate  the  overwhelming  feeling  of  solitude 
that  I  felt  on  looking  about  me.  To  whatever 
point  of  view  I  turned  my  eyes  were  greeted 
with  a  tumbled  sea  composed  of  stupendous 
petrified  billows. 

The  occasional  fields  of  snow  were  the  white 
froth  of  the  stony  waves  and  the  turquoise 
colored  glacial  lakes  between  the  crags  rather 
added  to  the  effect  of  an  angry  ocean  than 
detracted  from  it. 

On  a  closer  examination,  some  of  the  rocks 
appeared  to  be  rough  bits  of  unfinished  worlds 
still  retaining  the  form  they  had  when  poured 
from  the  mighty  blast  furnaces  of  the  Creator. 
It  was  God's  workshop  strewn  with  huge 
fragments,  still  bearing  the  marks  of  His 
mallet  and  chisel;  yet  these  cold  barren 
wastes  were  the  pasture  lands  of  the  shaggy- 

144 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       145 

coated  white  goats  and  the  lithe-limbed  big- 
horned  sheep. 

Suddenly  a  shrill  whistle  pierced  the  air 
and  with  a  jump  I  instinctively  looked  for  a 
vision  of  the  Wild  Hunter,  but  a  moment 
later  realized  that  the  sound  I  heard  was  but 
the  warning  cry  of  a  whistling  marmot. 
Again  the  silence  was  broken,  this  time  by  a 
low  rumbling  sound  which  increased  in  volume 
until  it  roared  like  a  broadside  from  an  old 
forty-four-gun  man-of-war,  each  crag  and 
peak  taking  up  the  sound  and  hurling  it 
against  its  neighbor,  until  the  reverberating 
noise  seemed  to  come  from  all  points  of  the 
compass. 

Away  in  the  distance  I  could  see  a  white 
stream  pouring  from  the  precipitous  edge  of 
an  elevated  glacier;  this  seeming  mountain 
torrent  I  knew  was  not  water,  but  ice,  thous 
ands  of  tons  of  which  having  cracked  and 
broken  from  the  edge  of  the  glacier,  were  now 
being  dashed  over  the  hard  face  of  the  rock 
into  minute  fragments. 


146       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

The  white  stream  could  be  seen  to  decrease 
perceptibly  in  size,  from  a  broad  sheet  to  a 
wide  band,  a  narrow  ribbon,  a  line,  a  hair  and 
then  disappear  altogether.  While  the  distant 
mountains  were  still  growling,  mumbling  and 
playing  shuttlecock  with  the  echoes  a  timid 
chief  hare  went  hopping  across  a  green  half- 
acre  of  grass  at  the  damp  edge  of  a  melting 
snow  patch  in  my  path.  Overhead  a  golden 
eagle  sailed  with  a  small  mammal  in  its  talons; 
strange  reddish-colored  bumblebees  busied 
themselves  in  a  bunch  of  flowers  growing  in 
a  crevice  in  the  rocks  at  my  feet. 

But  my  eye  could  discern  no  larger  creatures 
in  this  Alpine  pasture  land;  not  only  could  I 
see  no  sheep  or  goats,  but  not  a  sign  of  my 
friend.  He  had  vanished  from  the  face  of 
the  picture  as  completely  as  if  the  master 
artist  had  erased  him  with  one  mighty  sweep 
of  his  paint  brush. 

When  I  viewed  the  lonely  landscape  with 
no  human  being  in  sight,  I  confess  to  ex 
periencing  a  creepy  sensation  and  a  strong 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       147 

inclination  to  flee,  but  I  knew  not  in  what 
direction  to  run.  I  was  in  a  rough  basin- 
shaped  depression  among  the  mountain  peaks, 
and  I  sat  on  a  large  rock  with  my  back  to  a 
black  chasm.  From  my  elevated  position  I 
could  see  a  long  distance.  Strange  fancies 
creep  into  one's  head  on  such  occasions  and 
play  havoc  with  previous  well-founded  beliefs. 
To  me,  poor  fool  of  a  tenderfoot,  Big  Pete 
had  melted  into  the  thinnest  of  thin  air,  such 
as  is  only  found  in  high  altitudes,  and  some 
how  I  wondered  whether  the  Wild  Hunter 
had  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 

How  could  I  tell  that  I  myself  was  not 
invisible? 

I  hauled  myself  up  short  there  for  I  realized 
that  such  folly  was  not  good  to  have  tumbling 
around  in  my  brain.  I  figuratively  pulled 
myself  back  to  earth,  and  to  steady  my 
nerves  reached  into  my  pack  and  brought 
out  several  hard  bits  of  bannock  that  I  had 
stored  there.  I  was  dreadfully  hungry  and 
I  munched  these  with  enthusiasm,  meanwhile 


148       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

keeping  a  sharp  eye  out  for  Big  Pete,  and 
between  times  making  the  acquaintance  of 
the  little  chief  hare  who,  as  he  scuttled  about 
among  the  rocks,  looked  me  over  curiously. 

A  short  distance  to  my  left  was  a  huge 
obsidian  cliff,  the  glassy  walls  of  which  rose 
in  a  precipice  to  a  considerable  height.  On 
account  of  its  peculiar  formation,  this  crag  of 
natural  glass  had  several  times  attracted  my 
attention,  and  on  any  other  occasion  I  would 
have  been  curious  enough  to  give  it  closer 
inspection.  Once,  as  I  turned  my  head  in 
that  direction,  I  thought  I  heard  a  wild  laugh 
and  later  concluded  that  it  was  only  imagina 
tion  on  my  part,  but  now,  as  I  again  faced  the 
cliff,  I  unmistakably  heard  a  shout  and  was 
considerably  relieved  to  see  silhouetted  against 
the  sky  the  figure  of  Big  Pete. 

"Hello,  Le-loo,"  he  shouted.  "Through 
chasin'  that  'ere  spook  Indian  kid  be  you? 
It's  about  time.  Gosh-all-hemlocks !  I  been 
breakin '  my  neck  tryin '  to  keep  up  with  you, 
doggone  yore  hide,"  shouted  the  big  guide  as 
he  started  to  climb  down  toward  me* 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       149 

"Hello,  Pete!  You  bet  I'm  through  and 
Fm  blamed  near  all  in.  Where  are  we,  do 
you  know?"  I  called  to  him." 

"Top  o'  the  world,  my  boy.  Top  o'  the 
world,  that's  whar  we  be,"  he  said  with  a  grin. 

I  had  seen  no  game  since  I  had  lost  the 
bighorn,  and  the  sunball  was  now  hung  low  in 
the  heavens.  It  appeared  to  me  that  there 
was  every  prospect  for  a  supperles?  night,  too. 
But  Big  Pete  evidently  had  no  such  idea,  and 
he  "'lowed"  that  he  would  "mosey"  'round 
a  bit  and  kill  some  varmints  for  grub. 

There  seemed  to  be  plenty  of  mountain 
lion  signs,  and  I  was  surprised  that  they 
should  frequent  such  high  altitudes,  but 
Pete  told  me  that  they  were  up  here  after 
marmots,  and  were  all  sleek  and  fat  on  that 
diet.  I  would  not  have  been  surprised  if  my 
wild  comrade  had  proposed  a  feast  on  these 
cats.  But  it  was  not  long  before  Pete's 
revolvers  could  be  heard  barking  and  in  a 
short  time  he  returned  with  two  braces  of 
white  ptarmigan,  each  with  its  head  shattered 
by  a  pistol  ball,  and  I  confess  these  birds 


150       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

were  more  to  my  liking  than  cat  meat.  Up 
there  'mid  the  snow  fields  the  ptarmigan 
apparently  kept  their  winter  plumage  all  year 
round,  and  their  natural  camouflage  made 
them  utterly  invisible  to  me,  but  to  Pete,  a 
white  ptarmigan  on  a  white  snowfield  seemed 
to  be  as  easy  to  detect  as  if  the  same  bird  had 
been  perched  on  a  heap  of  coal.  I  had  not 
seen  one  of  these  grouse  since  we  had  been 
in  the  mountains  and  was  not  aware  of  their 
presence  until  my  companion  returned  with 
the  four  dead  birds. 

Without  wasting  time,  Pete  began  to  pre 
pare  them  for  cooking.  He  soon  built  a  fire 
of  some  sticks  which  he  gleaned  from  one  or 
two  twisted  and  gnarled  evergreens  that  had 
wandered  above  timber  line  and  cooked  the 
birds  over  the  embers.  He  gave  a  brace  to 
me,  and  sitting  on  a  boulder  with  our  feet 
hanging  over  the  edge  we  ate  our  evening 
meal  without  salt  or  pepper,  and  then  each  of 
us  curled  up  like  a  grey  wolf  under  the  shelter 
of  a  stone  and  slept  as  safely  as  if  we  were  in 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       151 

our  bed  rolls  down  in  the  genial  atmosphere 
of  the  park  in  place  of  being  in  the  bitingly 
cold  air  of  the  bleak  mountain  tops. 

I,  at  least,  slept  soundly,  and,  thanks  to 
the  clothes  Pete  had  so  kindly  made  for  me, 
I  do  not  remember  feeling  cold.  When  I 
awoke  again  it  was  daylight  and  I  could 
scarcely  believe  that  I  had  been  asleep  more 
than  five  minutes  since  my  friend  bade  me 
good-night.  Big  Pete  was  up  before  me,  of 
course,  and  when  I  opened  my  eyes  I  found 
him  cooking  breakfast  and  making  tea  in  a 
tin  cup  over  those  economical  fires  he  so 
loved  to  build  even  when  we  were  in  the  park 
where  there  was  fuel  enough  for  a  roaring 
bonfire.  It's  queer  how  difficult  it  is  to  make 
water  boil  on  a  mountain  top. 

"Well,  now  fer  the  witch-b'ar  track  agin," 
said  Big  Pete,  wiping  his  mouth. 

"Witch-bear!"  I  exclaimed.  "Oh— yes— 
you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  kept  following 
the  track  of  that  two-legged  bear  this  far, 
Pete?"  I  exclaimed,  suddenly  recalling  that  we 


152       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

had  started  out  following  a  mysterious  mocca 
sin  trail  that  had  later  turned  into  bear  tracks. 

"Sartin'  sure.  Didn't  you  figger  out  that 
that  tha'  b'ar  war  the  Injun  or  tha'  Wild 
Hunter  who  put  on  moccasins  made  o'  b'ar 
feet  when  he  thought  we'd  foller  him?'* 
asked  Pete. 

:<Yes,  I  did,  but  I  forgot — maybe  that  ram 
was  the  Wild  Hunter  himself — blame  it. 
Nothing  will  astonish  me  in  this  country." 

'Yes,  you  fergot  everything,  even  yore 
head  when  you  started  to  foller  that  tha' 
ram  yesterday.  But  I  didn't.  I  jest  kept 
peggin'  away  at  them  tha'  rumswattel  b'ar 
tracks  and  I  followed  'em  right  up  to  yonder 
cliff.  They  go  on  from  tha',  but  I  left  'em 
last  night  to  come  over  by  you.  Come  on, 
we'll  pick  'em  up  agin."  And  off  he  started. 

It  was  soon  evident  that  it  was  an  exceed 
ingly  active  bear  which  we  were  following  for 
it  could  climb  over  green  glacier  ice  like  a 
Swiss  guide  and  over  rocks  like  a  goat.  It  led 
us  a  wild,  wild  chase  over  crevasses,  friable 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        153 

and  treacherous  stones  covered  with  "verglass," 
over  dangerous  couloirs  and  all  the  other 
things  talked  of  in  the  Alps  but  forgotten  in 
the  Rockies,  to  high  elevations,  where  frozen 
snow  combed  over  the  beetling  crags,  and 
the  avalanches  roared  and  thundered  down 
the  rocks,  dashing  the  fragments  of  stone  over 
the  lower  ice  fields.  We  were  not  roped 
together  like  mountain  climbers  in  the  Swiss 
or  Tyrolean  Alps;  we  got  the  real  thrills  by 
using  our  own  hands  and  feet  without  ice  pick, 
staff  or  hobnailed  shoes. 

But  Big  Pete  never  hesitated  and  I  followed 
him  without  a  word,  and  when  the  trail  led 
along  the  edge  of  a  dizzy  height  I  could  look 
at  the  middle  of  Big  Pete's  broad  back  and 
then  my  head  would  not  swim.  It  required 
quick  and  good  judgment  to  tell  just  how 
much  of  a  slant  made  a  loose  stone  unsafe  to 
step  upon.  It  was  exciting  and  exhilarating 
work,  and  the  violent  exercise  kept  me  so 
warm  that  I  carried  most  of  my  clothes  in  a 
bundle  on  my  back.  Presently  our  path  led 


154       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

us  into  a  goat  trail,  one  of  those  century  old 
paths  made  by  shaggy  white  Alpine  animals, 
and  used  by  them  as  regular  highways. 
There  were  plenty  of  fresh  goat  signs,  and  the 
broad  path  led  us  over  a  saddle  mountain 
to  the  verge  of  a  cliff,  beyond  which  it  seemed 
impossible  for  anything  but  birds  to  pursue 
the  trail.  Here  we  sat  down  to  rest  and  to 
make  a  cup  of  tea  over  a  tiny  fire,  although 
wood  was  plentiful  at  this  place,  it  being  in  the 
timber  line. 

Below  us  lay  a  valley,  into  which  numerous 
small  glaciers  emptied  their  everlasting  supply 
of  ice  and  blocks  of  stone,  and  horse-tail  falls 
poured  from  the  melting  snow  fields.  It  might 
have  presented  enchanting  prospects  to  an 
iceman  or  a  bighorn,  or  a  Rocky  Mountain 
goat,  but  for  two  tired  men  it  was  a  gloomy, 
dangerous  and  desolate  place  and  I  felt 
certain  that  even  a  witch-bear  would  not 
choose  such  a  dangerous  place  as  a  camping 
ground.  We  had  finished  our  tea  and  I  was 
feeling  somewhat  refreshed  when  I  noticed  a 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       155 

peculiar  stinging  sensation  about  my  face;  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  attacked  by  some  peculiar 
form  of  insect.  But  there  were  none  in  sight. 

Pete,  at  this  time,  was  some  distance  away 
prospecting  the  "lay  of  the  land."  I  saw 
him  suddenly  pull  the  cape  of  his  wamus  over 
his  face,  and  reasoned  that  he  also  had  been 
attacked  by  these  invisible  insects. 

To  my  surprise,  the  big  fellow  seemed  very 
much  alarmed,  and  every  time  I  shouted  to 
him  it  greatly  excited  him.  As  he  was 
hurrying  to  me  as  rapidly  as  possible,  I 
desisted  from  further  inquiry.  When  Big 
Pete  reached  my  side  he  pulled  a  handkerchief 
from  around  rhy  neck  and  put  it  over  my 
mouth,  making  signs  which  I  did  not  com 
prehend.  At  last  he  put  his  muffled  mouth 
to  my  ear  and  shouted  through  the  cape  of 
his  wamus.  "Shut  yer  meat-trap  or  you're 
food  for  the  .coyotes.  It  is  the  WHITE 
DEATH!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

Clothes  and  stage  trappings  can  neither 
add  nor  detract  from  our  respect  for  death. 
He  is  the  same  grim  old  gentleman,  be  his 
mouldy  bones  naked,  or  clothed  in  robes  of 
the  most  gaudy  or  brilliant  hues.  A  blue 
death,  a  red  death  or  a  yellow  death  is  just  as 
grizzly  and  awe-inspiring  as  one  of  any  shade 
of  gray.  Even  a  black  death  excites  no 
emotions  not  touched  by  the  first  name,  for 
it  is  the  dread  messenger  himself  whom  we 
respect  and  not  his  fanciful  robes  of  office. 

As  far  as  I  am  personally  concerned,  I 
confess  that  Big  Pete's  painful  suggestion 
about  the  coyotes  had  more  to  do  with  keeping 
my  mouth  shut  than  any  terror  inspired  by 
the  lily-like  purity  of  the  garments  of  the 
white  death;  what  made  my  bones  ache  was 
the  thought  of  the  wolves  gnawing  them. 

Overhead  the  sun  shone  with  an  unusual 

156 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       157 

brilliancy,  and  the  atmosphere  had  that  pecu 
liar  crystalline  transparency  which  kills  space 
and  brings  distant  objects  close  to  one's  feet. 
Where  then  was  the  terrible  white  messenger? 
Why  must  my  head  be  muffled  like  a  mummy? 
Why  must  I  keep  my  mouth  shut,  while  the 
curiosity  mill  within  me  was  working  overtime 
grinding  out  questions  I  should  dearly  love 
to  ask? 

Again  and  again  I  looked  around  me  to  see 
where  this  ghostly  white  terror  might  lurk, 
and  now,  as  I  gazed  at  the  mountains,  I  was 
surprised  and  annoyed  to  discover  that  the 
distant  peaks  were  gradually  disappearing, 
being  blotted  out  of  the  landscape  before  my 
eyes;  a  ghost-like  mantle  was  creeping  over 
and  enshrouding  the  mountains. 

Like  Big  Pete,  the  witch-bear,  the  ptarmigan 
and  the  stinging  insects,  the  mountains  them 
selves  had  joined  in  the  weird  game  and  were 
donning  their  fernseed  caps  of  invisibility. 
Now  the  air  around  and  about  me  seemed  to 
be  filled  with  powdered  dust  of  mica  that 


158       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

glinted,  sparkled  and  scintillated  in  the  sun 
shine.  The  breeze  which  was  tossing  about 
the  bright  atoms  loosened  the  handkerchief 
which  swathed  my  nose  and  mouth,  and  I 
was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 

It  was  no  gentle  hand  which  Big  Pete  laid 
on  my  shoulder  before  he  again  bound  the 
handkerchief  around  my  face  and  motioned 
for  me  to  follow  him. 

Evidently  my  guide  had  been  making  good 
use  of  his  time  while  I  was  engaged  in  idle 
speculation,  for  he  led  me  to  a  point  about 
fifty  yards  from  the  goat  trail  where  there  was 
a  possible  place  to  descend  the  cliff  to  a  ledge 
fifty  feet  below.  By  this  time  I  had  become 
enough  of  a  mountaineer  to  follow  my  guide 
over  trails  which  a  few  weeks  previous  would 
have  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  traverse, 
and  after  a  hasty  and  daring  descent  we 
reached  the  ledge,  where  I  discovered  the 
black  mouth  of  a  cavern;  into  this  hole  Pete 
thrust  me  and  led  me  back  some  twenty  yards 
into  the  darkness,  ordered  me  to  disrobe  to 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       159 

the  waist,  then  he  began  a  most  vigorous 
and  irritating  slapping  and  rubbing  of  my 
chest;  so  insistent  and  persevering  was  he 
that  I  really  thought  my  skin  would  be  peeled 
from  shoulders  to  waist.  At  last  he  desisted 
and  ordered  me  to  put  on  all  my  clothes. 

"Are  you  mad,  Pete?  Has  the  rarefied  air 
of  the  mountains  upset  your  brain?  If  not3 
will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  on  earth  all  this 
means  and  why  we  are  hiding  in  this  gloomy 
hole?"  I  asked  as  soon  as  I  got  the  breath 
back  in  my  body. 

"Le-loo,  you  be  a  baby,  and  need  a  keeper 
to  prevent  you  from  committing  susancide 
several  times  a  day.  Tenderfoot?  Well,  I 
should  say  so.  No  one  but  a  short-horn  from 
the  East  would  keep  his  mouth  open  gulping 
in  the  frozen  fog,  filling  his  warm  lungs  with 
quarts  of  fine  ice.  I  reckon  it  would  be 
healthier  to  breathe  pounded  glass,  fur  it 
hain't  sharper  nor  half  as  cold.  Why,  Le-loo, 
tha'  be  a  dose  of  fever  and  lung  inflammation 
in  every  mouthful  of  this  frozen  fog." 


160       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

He  held  my  face  between  his  two  strong 
hands  so  that  the  faint  light  that  filtered 
through  the  murky  darkness  from  the  cavern's 
mouth  dimly  illuminated  my  countenance , 
and  as  he  watched  the  streams  of  perspiration 
falling  in  drops  from  the  end  of  my  nose  his 
frown  relaxed  and  a  broad  grin  spread  over, 
his  handsome  features. 

"You're  all  right  this  time,"  he  added 
"I  calculate  that  I've  melted  all  the  ice  in 
your  bellows,  so  just  creep  up  tha'  and  sweat 
a  bit  more  to  make  it  slick  and  sartin  that 
we've  beat  the  White  Death  this  trip." 
I  did  as  he  said,  not  because  I  wanted  to 
sweat  but  because  habit  made  me  obey  the 
commands  of  my  guide. 

Evidently  this  cavern  had  been  in  constant 
use  by  some  sort  of  animals  as  a  sort  of  stable 
for  many,  many  years,  and  I  have  had  sweeter 
couches,  but  by  this  time  my  rough  life  had 
transformed  me  into  something  of  a  wild 
animal  myself,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I 
was  comfortably  dozing.  During  the  time 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        161 

that  I  slept  I  was  dimly  conscious  of  being 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  people;  as  the 
absurdity  of  this  forced  itself  through  my 
sleep-befuddled  brain  and  I  opened  wide  my 
eyes,  what  I  saw  made  me  open  my  eyes 
still  wider. 

I  was  about  to  start  to  my  feet  when  I  felt 
Big  Pete's  restraining  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  not  until  then  did  I  realize  that  the  cave 
was  crowded  with  the  shaggy  white  Rocky 
Mountain  goats,  and  not  weird,  white-bearded 
old  men.  Few  persons  'can  truly  say  that 
they  have  been  within  arm's  length  of  a  flock 
of  these  timid  and  almost  unapproachable 
animals;  but  we  had  invaded  their  secret 
place  of  refuge,  and  they  had  not,  as  yet, 
taken  alarm  at  our  presence  in  their  castle. 
It  may  be  that  the  frozen  fog  had  driven 
the  goats  to  the  cavern  for  shelter,  and  it  is 
possible  that  never  having  been  hunted  by 
man,  these  animals  feared  the  White  Death 
more  than  they  did  human  beings,  and  did 
not  realize  the  dangerous  character  of  their 


162       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

present  visitors;  whatever  the  cause  of  their 
temerity,  the  fact  remains  that  men  and 
goats  slept  that  night  in  the  cavern  together. 

I  did  not  awake  next  morning  until  after 
the  departure  of  the  goats  and  opened  my 
eyes  to  find  myself  alone  in  the  cavern. 

Having  all  my  clothes  on,  no  time  was 
wasted  at  my  toilet,  but  I  made  my  way 
directly  to  the  doorway  and  was  gratified  to 
discover  that  Big  Pete  was  roasting  some  kid 
chops  over  the  hot  embers  of  a  fire. 

After  breakfasting  on  the  remains  of  the 
kid,  Big  Pete  arose  and  scanned  the  sky,  the 
horizon  and  the  mountain  tops,  and  turning 
to  me  said,  "Now,  Le-loo,  that  Wild  Hunter- 
b'ar-wolf  man  has  fooled  us  by  doubling  on 
his  trail  an'  as  it  hain't  him  we're  after  now 
but  the  trail  out  of  the  mountains,  I  mean  to 
go  by  sens-see-ation,  but  you  must  keep  yer 
meat-trap  shut  and  not  speak,  'cause  soon 
as  I  know  I'm  a  man  I  hain't  got  no  more 
sense  than  a  man.  I  must  say  to  myself, 
'Now,  Pete,  you're  a  varmint  and  varmints 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       163 

know  their  way  even  in  a  new  country.' 
Then  I  just  sense  things  and  trots  along  'til 
I  come  out  all  right." 

I  had  often  heard  of  this  wonderful  instinct 
of  direction,  the  homing  instinct  of  the 
pigeon,  which  some  Indians,  Africans,  Au 
stralian  black  boys  and  a  few  white  men  still 
possess;  I  say  still  possess  because  it  is  evident 
that  it  was  once  our  common  heritage,  a  sort  of 
sixth  sense  which  has  been  lost  by  disuse. 
That  Big  Pete  possessed  this  sixth  sense  I 
little  doubted,  and  it  was  with  absorbing  inter 
est  that  I  watched  the  man  work  himself  into 
the  proper  state  of  mind. 

For  quite  a  time  he  stood  sniffing  the  air 
and  looking  around  him  while  his  body  swayed 
with  a  slow  motion.  Then  suddenly,  as  if 
he  had  seen  something  or  as  if  answering  the 
call  of  something,  he  started  off  almost  at 
right  angles  to  our  trail,  acting  very  much  like 
a  hound  on  an  old  scent,  but  keeping  up  a 
pace  that  tried  my  endurance. 

It  was  truly  wonderful  the  way  this  man,  in 


164       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

a  trance-like  state,  was  guided  by  an  invisible 
power  over  the  most  dangerous  ground,  but 
no  one,  after  a  careful  survey,  could  have 
selected  a  better  trail  than  that  chosen  by 
Big  Pete.  On  and  on  we  went,  scrambling 
over  rock-skirting  precipices  and  crumbling 
ledges.  A  dense  fog  settled  around  us,  making 
each  step  hazardous,  but  with  an  instinct  as 
true  and  apparently  identical  with  that  of 
our  four-footed  brothers,  my  guide  kept  the 
same  rapid  pace  for  hours,  and  then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  came  to  an  abrupt  stop. 

For  several  seconds  he  stood  in  his  tracks, 
his  body  keeping  the  same  swaying  motion, 
but  after  a  short  while  he  crept  cautiously 
forward  in  the  fog,  with  me  at  his  heels,  and 
we  found  ourselves  at  the  edge  of  a  giant 
fault,  similar  to  the  one  in  Darlinkel  Park* 
but  there  was  apparently  no  pass  to  let  us 
down  the  towering  precipices  to  the  valley 
below. 

"Well,  that  was  a  wonderful  trip,"  I  cried. 

"Shut   up!"    shouted    Pete   savagely,    but 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       165 

I  had  spoken  and  the  spell  was  broken; 
reason,  not  instinct,  must  now  lead  us. 

Vapor  and  clouds  concealed  the  low  grounds 
from  our  view;  however,  we  were  determined 
not  to  spend  another  night  in  the  mountains, 
so  while  I  rested  and  regained  my  breath, 
Big  Pete  went  on  to  explore  the  ledges. 

Presently  my  guide  hove  in  sight  and 
motioned  me  to  follow  him;  he  led  me  to  a 
place  where  another  goat  trail  went  over  the 
edge  of  the  precipice,  this  time  not  in  ten  and 
fifteen  feet  jumps,  but  by  a  steep  diagonal 
path.  Down  the  treacherous  trail  we  slipped 
and  slid  with  a  wall  of  rocks  on  one  side  and 
death  in  the  form  of  a  bluish  white  space  on 
the  other  side. 

As  we  were  clambering  carefully  around 
the  face  of  a  big  rock  Pete  suddenly  whispered 
that  he  smelt  a  "Painter,"  and  upon  peering 
around  the  corner  we  found  ourselves  face  to 
face  with  a  large  cat;  the  animal  was  crouching 
upon  a  flat- topped  projecting  stone  imme 
diately  in  our  path.  That  it  was  not  the 


166       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

puma  of  the  low-lands,  its  reddish-colored 
coat  and  great  size  proclaimed.  It  was  a 
so-called  mountain  lion  and  a  grand  specimen 
of  its  kind. 

The  cat's  small  head  lay  between  its  mus 
cular  forepaws,  its  hair  adhered  closely  to  its 
body,  its  long  tail  was  full  and  round  and 
waved  slowly  from  side  to  side,  while  its  eyes 
gleamed  like  electric  sparks. 

We  were  in  a  most  awkward  position;  our 
guns  were  swung  by  straps  over  our  backs, 
so  that  we  might  use  our  hands,  and  we  were 
clinging  to  the  face  of  the  big  rock  while  our 
toes  were  seeking  foothold  in  the  treacherous 
shale  of  the  trail.  To  loosen  our  hands  was  to 
fall  backwards  into  the  bluish  white  sea  of 
unknown  depths,  and  to  retrace  our  steps 
was  out  of  the  question. 

Pete  often  expressed  the  opinion  that  no 
predaceous  creature,  from  a  spider  up  to  a 
cougar,  will  attack  its  prey  while  the  latter  is 
immovable. 

As  a  corollary  to  this  proposition  he  said 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        167 

that  when  a  person  is  suddenly  confronted 
by  a  dangerous  wild  beast,  the  safest  plan  to 
pursue  is  to  remain  perfectly  quiet,  or,  as  he 
quaintly  put  it,  "to  peetrify  yourself  in  the 
wink  of  an  eye." 

Truth  to  tell,  on  this  occasion  I  found  no 
difficulty  in  following  his  directions.  I  was 
"peetrified"  by  fear;  my  feet  were  cold  and 
numb,  chills  in  wavelets  washed  up  and  down 
my  spine,  a  sudden  rash  seemed  to  be  breaking 
out  all  over  my  body  and  the  skin  on  my  back 
felt  as  if  it  had  been  converted  into  goose- 
flesh. 

Had  we  been  able  to  travel  a  few  feet 
further  we  would  have  both  found  a  com 
paratively  safe  footing  and  had  our  arms 
free  and  a  fighting  chance  with  the  big 
catamount  in  place  of  hanging  suspended  to 
the  face  of  the  rock  like  two  big,  helpless, 
terrified  bats. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

With  an  imperceptible  movement,  as  steady 
and  almost  as  slow  as  that  of  a  glacier,  my 
guide  twisted  his  neck  until  his  face  was 
turned  from  the  puma  and  the  side  of  the 
mouth  pressed  against  the  flat  surface  of  his 
rock.  I  was  crowded  up  against  Big  Pete, 
who  occupied  a  position  but  slightly  in  advance 
and  a  little  above  me.  My  agony  of  fear 
having  somewhat  subsided  I  ventured  to  steal 
a  momentary  glance  at  my  comrade's  face. 
To  my  unutterable  surprise  I  discovered  a 
whimsical  twinkling  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
and  a  mirthful  expression  of  mischief  in  his 
countenance.  This  was  incomprehensible  to 
me,  for  I  could  imagine  no  more  awe-inspiring 
position  than  the  one  we  then  occupied. 

While  my  thoughts  were  still  busy  trying 
to  fathom  the  cause  of  Pete's  untimely 
mirth,  the  long-drawn  howl  of  the  big  timber 
wolf  floated  over  the  valley  and  sent  a  new  lot 

168 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        169 

of  shivers  down  my  back.  It  was  the  rallying 
call  used  by  the  wolves  to  call  the  band  to 
gether  when  game  is  in  sight.  The  sound 
increased  in  volume  until  it  reverberated 
among  the  crags  like  the  voice  of  a  winter's 
storm,  and  then  it  gradually  died  away. 
Big  Pete  was  not  only  a  good  mimic  but  he 
proved  himself  to  be  a  ventriloquist  of  no 
mean  ability;  by  the  help  of  the  rock  against 
which  his  cheek  was  pressed  he  had  been  able 
to  throw  his  voice  off  into  space  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  baffled  me  for  several  moments. 
The  gray  wolves  are  old  and  inveterate 
enemies  of  the  panther  or  cougar,  hunting 
the  cats  on  all  occasions.  Consequently  all 
panthers  know  the  meaning  of  that  wild 
lonesome  howls  the  assembling  call,  as  well 
as  the  oldest  wolf  in  the  pack,  and  its  effect 
upon  the  lion  in  our  path  was  instantaneous. 
The  hair,  which  had  a  moment  before  been  as 
slick  as  if  it  were  oiled,  now  rose  upright  until 
the  fuzzy  hide  gave  the  animal's  body  the 
appearance  of  being  twice  its  original  size. 


170       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

Scarcely  had  the  big  cat  vacated  the  path 
before  we  scrambled  to  the  firm  foothold  and 
I  breathed  a  great  sigh  of  relief  when  it  was 
reached.  But  Big  Pete  was  convulsed  with 
suppressed  laughter  at  the  practical  joke  he 
had  played  on  the  mountain  lion. 

"Gosh  darn  my  magnolia  breath!  That 
painter  went  as  if  he  had  a  ball  of  hot  rorrum 
tied  to  his  tail/'  cried  my  guide. 

It  was  difficult  for  me  to  realize  that  it  was 
Big  Pete  himself  who  had  given  vent  to  that 
shuddering  howl,  and  now  the  danger  was  over 
I  pleaded  with  him  to  give  another  exhibition 
of  his  skill  in  wolf  calls. 

The  good-natured  fellow  at  first  seemed 
reluctant  to  repeat  his  performance,  but  at 
length  consented  and  put  his  hands  to  his 
mouth,  forming  a  trumpet,  then  bent  forward 
his  body,  stooping  so  low  that  his  face  was 
was  below  his  waist,  after  which  he  began  again 
that  wild  cry  which  so  closely  resembles  in 
sentiment  and  tone  the  shriek  of  the  wind. 
As  the  sound  increased  in  volume  the  man 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       171 

waved  his  head  from  side  to  side;  continuing 
the  ovemment  he  gradually  assumed  an 
upright  pose,  and  ended  by  making  a  low 
obeisance  as  the  sound  died  away. 

The  imitation  was  perfect  and  I  was  express 
ing  my  delight  and  appreciation  when  my  ear 
caught  a  distant  sound  which  put  a  sudden 
stop  to  our  conversation. 

Was  it  the  wind  which  I  now  heard?  No! 
there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  neither 
was  it  an  echo.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  it,  the  long-drawn  sepulchral  howl 
which  filled  and  permeated  the  shivering  air 
was  an  answering  cry  to  Big  Pete's  call. 

Scarcely  had  the  sound  waves  faded  away 
when  in  the  mysterious  distance  came  another 
and  another  answer,  until  it  seemed  as  if  a 
troop  of  lost  souls  were  vocalizing  their 
misery.  I  unslung  my  gun  and  loosened  my 
revolvers  in  their  fringed  holsters,  but  Big  Pete 
only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said, 

"Come,  let's  be  moseying.  'Taint  nothin* 
but  wolves."  A  fact  of  which  I  was  as  well 


172       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

aware  of  as  Pete,  but  I,  tenderfoot  that  I  was, 
could  not  treat  howling  of  wolves  with  the 
same  unconcern  as  did  my  guide. 

We  soon  reached  a  point  where  the  goat 
trail  turned  again  up  the  mountain  and  we 
forsook  that  ancient  path  for  a  diagonal 
fracture  very  similar  to  the  one  by  which  we 
had  ascended,  which  led  down  the  face  of  the 
precipice  "slantendicularwise,"  Big  Pete  said, 
and  soon  plunged  into  the  bluish  gray  sea 
which  filled  the  valley.  We  were  now  envel 
oped  in  a  dense  fog,  which  added  materially 
to  the  dangers  of  the  journey.  I  had  had  so 
many  thrills  in  the  last  few  moments  that  my 
nerves  were  becoming  dull  and  failed  to  vibrate 
on  this  occasion,  so  that  descending  the  cliff 
in  a  fog  by  a  diagonal  fracture  in  the  rock 
became  only  an  incident  of  our  journey;  this 
trail,  however,  was  wider  than  the  one  by 
which  we  ascended. 

The  Rocky  Mountains  are  full  of  new 
sensations  and  I  got  a  new  one  when  I 
discovered  that  the  fog  through  which 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       173 

we  had  been  traveling  was  in  reality  a  cloud, 
and,  all  unexpectedly,  we  emerged  into  the 
clear  mellow  light  below  the  floating  vapor. 
It  was  an  enchanting  scene  which  met  our 
eyes;  below  us  stretched  a  beautiful  valley. 

For  the  first  time  in  months  I  saw  a  human 
habitation.  The  blue  smoke  from  the  chimney 
ascended  slowly  in  a  tall  column  and  then 
floated  horizontally  in  stratified  layers.  There 
were  fields  of  ripe  grain,  orchards,  groves, 
pasture  lands  and  a  winding  stream  fringed 
with  poplars,  which  flowed  in  a  tortuous 
course  across  the  valley.  As  I  feasted  my  eyes 
on  the  peaceful  scene  a  great  longing  took 
possession  of  my  soul. 

Big  Pete,  too,  was  lost  in  thought,  conjured 
up  by  the  scene  below  us.  He  stood  leaning 
on  his  rifle  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  enchant 
ing  picture;  so  full  ot  unconscious  dignity 
was  his  pose,  so  immovable  stood  the  moun 
tain  man  that  he  looked  like  a  grand  statue 
done  by  a  master  hand. 

But  what  thoughts  were  conjured  up  in  the 


174       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

guide's  brain  by  the  unexpected  sight  of 
this  ranch  could  not  be  interpreted  from  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  for  that  showed 
no  more  trace  of  emotion  than  an  American 
Indian  at  the  torture  stake,  or  the  marble 
face  of  a  Greek  god.  Presently  he  shifted 
his  pose,  threw  back  his  head,  and  Big  Pete's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  valley  in  front  of  us,  as 
with  distended  nostrils  he  sniffed  the  moun 
tain  air,  his  brows  contracted  to  a  frown,  his 
eyes  lost  their  gentle  angelic  look  and  seemed 
to  change  from  China  blue  to  a  cold  steel 
color,  and  his  tightly  closed  mouth  had  a 
stern  expression  about  the  corners  which 
appeared  altogether  out  of  keeping  with  the 
occasion. 

"Rot  my  hide!"  he  exclaimed,  "if  I  hain't 
had  a  neighbor  all  these  years  and  never 
knowed  it.  Waugh!  Some  emigrant — terri- 
fication  seize  him! — has  found  another  park 
an*  squatted,  t'ain't  more'n  eight  miles  as  a 
crow  flies  from  mine,  nuther,  Le-loo."  He 
looked  at  the  sun  and  muttered.  "Hang  me, 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       175 

\ 

but  'tis  t'othei  end  of  my  own  park/'  then 
he  paused  a  moment  and  added  fiercely, 
"if  these  geysers  know  when  they  are  well  off, 
they'll  steer  shy  of  Darlinkel  Park.  If  I 
catch  'em  scoutin'  'round  my  claim,  I'll  send 
'em  a-hoppin'." 

"  Bless  me,  you  are  neighborly,"  exclaimed  a 
voice  in  smooth,  even  tones. 

"What!"  said  Pete,  looking  sternly  at  me. 
"Did  you  speak?" 

"I  said  nothing,"  I  replied. 

Big  Pete's  countenance  changed  and  he  ran 
his  hands  over  the  cartridges  in  his  belt  in 
the  old  familiar  manner,  and  with  a  motion 
quicker  than  I  can  describe  it,  whipped  out 
his  revolvers  and  wheeled  about  face,  at  the 
same  time  snapping  out  the  words,  "Throw  up 
your  hands!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

We  were  standing  on  the  surface  of  a  flat 
table-rock,  which  jutted  out  from  the  face 
of  the  towering  cliff  and  overhung  the  valley 
that  was  spread  out  like  a  map  beneath  us. 
About  twenty  feet  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
rock  was  a  pile  of  debris  heaped  up  against 
the  face  of  the  cliff;  but  the  remaining  surface 
of  the  stone  was  clean  bare  and  weather- 
beaten.  The  talus  against  the  cliff  was 
composed  of  loose  fragments  of  stone  and 
other  products  of  wash  and  erosion.  This 
was  overgrown  with  a  thicket  of  stunted 
shrubs,  wry-necked  goblin  thistles  and  mur 
derous  devil's  clubs.  These  bludgeon-shaped 
plants,  thickly  covered  with  sharp  thorns, 
reared  aloft  their  weapons  as  if  in  menace  to 
all  living  things;  the  unstable  ground  and 
thorny  thicket  formed  the  only  shelter  where 

176 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       177 

we  could  be  ambushed  in  the  rear,  and  it  was 
not  a  likely  spot  to  be  chosen  for  such  a 
purpose  by  man  or  beast. 

When  Big  Pete  wheeled  about  face  with  his 
trusty  revolvers  in  hand,  I  quickly  followed 
his  example,  and  our  mutual  surprise  may  be 
imagined  when  we  found  ourselves'gazing  in 
the  faces  of  a  semicircle  of  gigantic  wolves. 
The  animals  were  squatting  on  their  haunches 
at  the  foot  of  the  talus,  their  wicked  slant 
eyes  fixed  upon  us  and  their  red  tongues 
lolling  out  from  their  cavernous  mouths. 

I  cannot  tell  why,  whether  it  was  the  state  of 
my  nerves  or  the  effect  of  the  rare  air  of  the 
high  altitude,  or  what,  but  I  felt  no  fear  at 
facing  this  strange  wolf  pack.  Indeed,  to  me 
they  appeared  all  to  be  laughing  and  their 
red  tongues  lolled  from  their  open  mouths  in 
a  very  humorous  fashion. 

The  whole  scene  appeared  to  me  to  be 
exceedingly  funny  and,  in  a  spirit  of  utter 
reckless  bravado,  I  doffed  my  fur  cap,  with 
exaggerated  politeness  made  a  low  bow,  and, 


178       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

addressing  the  largest  and  most  devilish- 
looking  wolf  in  the  pack,  exclaimed, 

"Ah!  ths  is  Monsieur  Loup-Garou,  I 
believe.  Pardon  me,  Monsieur,  but  did  you 
speak  a  moment  since?" 

But  Big  Pete  Darlinkel  looked  at  the  wolves, 
and  great  beads  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead 
It  was  his  turn  to  have  the  shivers.  There 
was  no  more  color  in  his  face  than  in  a  peeled 
turnip.  His  gun  shook  in  his  left  hand  like  a 
aspen,  while  the  spangled  gun  in  his  right 
hand  dropped  its  muzzle  towards  earth  and 
there  was  scarcely  strength  enough  in  his 
nerveless  fingers  to  have  pulled  a  hair- 
trigger. 

Pete's  great  baby-blue  eyes  turned  help 
lessly  to  me;  but  it  was  now  my  innings,  and 
with  a  cheery  voice  I  cried, 

"Why,  Pete,  old  fellow,  what  ails  you?" 
Then  meanly  quoting  his  own  words,  I  added, 
"They  hain't  nothing  but  wolves!" 

There  is  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  Pete 
expected  the  wolves  to  answer  me  with 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        179 

human  voice,  and  I  am  willing  to  confess  that, 
even  to  me,  there  seemed  to  be  no  other 
alternative  for  the  slant-eyed  bandits  to 
pursue.  But  for  the  present  they  appeared 
to  prefer  to  maintain  a  solemn  silence. 

The  middle  wolf  had  been  looking  intently 
at  us  for  some  time  before  a  well-modulated 
voice  said, 

"I  have  answered  your  call,  gentlemen; 
how  can  I  serve  you?" 

I  was  more  than  half  expecting  some  such 
answer,  but  if  it  had  not  been  so  evident  that 
Big  Pete  was  badly  frightened  and  had  lost 
all  his  self-possession,  I  should  have  thought 
he  was  again  practising  his  art  as  ventriloquist. 

Of  course  I  deceived  myself.  The  wolves 
had  no  more  power  of  speech  than  a  house-dog. 
But  I  really  thought  the  wolves  were  doing 
the  talking  until  I  caught  sight  of  a  tall  man 
of  handsome  and  distinguished  appearance 
seated  among  the  weird  goblin-thistles  just 
above  the  wolves.  The  stranger  appeared 
to  be  a  man  of  almost  any  age;  he  might  be 


180       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

young  but,  if  old,  he  was  wonderfully  well 
preserved.  He  was  clad  in  a  light-colored 
buckskin  suit  of  clothes,  edged  and  trimmed 
with  fur,  a  fur  cap  on  his  head  and  moccasins 
on  his  feet.  And  I  noticed,  with  a  start,  that 
he  had  that  same  red  porcupine  quill  ornament 
on  his  hunting  shirt  that  the  young  Indian  wore. 

When  I  saw  how  his  dress  blended  perfectly 
with  his  surroundings  I  excused  myself  for 
not  sooner  detecting  him.  I  could  not  help 
but  admire  his  easy  grace  and  the  sense  of 
reserved  strength  in  his  strong  figure.  The 
calmness  and  repose  forcibly  reminded  me  of 
the  mountain  lion  we  had  lately  encountered. 

"You  kin  hackle  me  and  card  my  sinews, 
if  it  hain't  the  Wild  Hunter  himself  an'  his 
pack,"  said  Big  Pete  under  his  breath. 

The  color  now  began  to  return  to  his  face 
and  at  the  recollection  of  his  late  rude  words 
the  big  fellow  blushed  like  a  school  girl 
Gradually  he  recovered  his  self-possession, 
and,  doffing  his  cap,  made  a  low  bow  as  grace 
ful  and  as  courtly  as  that  of  any  polished 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       181 

courtier.  This  was  an  entirely  new  side  to 
my  friend's  character  and  I  listened  with 
interest  when  he  said, 

"Sir,  whether  you  be  loup-garou,  werwolf, 
witch-b'ar  or  all  them  to  onct,  I  do  not  care. 
What  I  want  ter  say  is  ef  that  tha'  ranch 
yander  be  your'n,  you  may  hamstring  me  ef 
I  hain't  proud  to  have  such  a  man  for  a  neigh 
bor.  Whatever  else  you  be  yore  no  shavetail 
or  shorthorn,  an'  that's  howsomever.  I  don't 
mind  sayin'  that  yore  a  better  shot  an'  all 
around  hunter  an'  mountain  man  than  Daniel 
Boone,  Simon  Kenton,  Davy  Crockett,  Kit 
Carson,  Bison  McClean  and  Jim  Baker  all 
rolled  in  one.  Yore  the  slickest  woodsman 
on  the  divide.  I'm  powerful  proud  of  you  as 
a  neighbor  and  would  be  still  prouder  ef  I 
might  call  you  my  friend." 

Our  strange  visitor  displayed  a  beautiful 
white  set  of  teeth  as  a  frank  smile  played 
over  his  smooth  face.  But  his  only  answer 
at  that  moment  was  an  inclination  of  his 
head  and  a  muttered  command  to  the  wolves, 


182       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

which  they  instantly  obeyed  by  silently 
disappearing  in  the  underbrush. 

After  a  pause  the  tall  stranger  came  forward, 
and,  removing  his  own  cap,  made  a  bow  even 
more  courtly  than  that  of  Big  Pete,  as  he  thus 
replied:  "Sir,  I  feel  highly  honored  at  this 
flattering  expression  of  commendation.  I  can 
honestly  say  that  it  is  the  greatest  compliment 
I  have  ever  received  from  a  stranger,  and," 
he  added  with  another  winning  smile, 
"you  are  the  first  stranger  with  whom  I  have 
held  converse  in  nearly  twenty  years.  That 
I  am  not  unfriendly  I  have  already  proved  by 
some  trifling  services,  but  the  honor  of  the 
acquaintance  is  mine." 

After  the  formalities  of  our  meeting  were 
over  the  stranger  stood  for  a  few  moments  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  breast.  He  was  evi 
dently  thinking  over  some  serious  subject. 
His  head  was  bare,  his  fur  cap  being  in  his 
hands,  and  his  hands  locked  behind  his  back. 
A  mass  of  light  colored  hair  fell  over  his 
forehead  and  shoulders. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        183 

Presently  he  looked  at  us  again,  with  that 
same  grave  smile  on  his  face,  and  said  that 
if  we  would  consent  to  be  blindfolded  and 
trust  ourselves  implicitly  to  his  care,  he  would 
be  glad  to  take  us  to  his  home  and  would  feel 
honored  if  we  should  choose  to  visit  him. 

"You  can  proceed  no  further  on  this  trail 
for  it  ends  here,  and  not  even  a  goat  can  go 
beyond  the  rock  on  which  we  stand,  therefore 
we  must  retrace  our  steps  a  few  hundred 
yards,"  he  explained,  as  he  apologized  for  his 
strange  proposition.  He  securely  bandaged 
our  eyes  with  our  own  handkerchiefs,  and 
after  turning  us  around  until  I  at  least  had 
lost  all  sense  of  direction,  he  placed  thongs  in 
our  hands,  and  then  we  discovered  that  we 
were  to  be  led  by  some  sort  of  animals,  pre 
sumably  wolves.  Whatever  else  they  were, 
they  proved  to  be  careful  and  sagacious 
leaders. 

After  a  short  distance  of  rough  climbing 
where  we  constantly  needed  the  personal  help 
of  our  mysterious  host,  we  began  to  descend 


184       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

and  soon  our  feet  told  us  that  we  were  traveling 
on  a  comparatively  smooth  though  steep  trail. 
Now  and  again  our  guide  would  speak  to  warn 
us  of  stones  or  other  obstructions  in  our  path, 
but,  with  the  exception  of  these  necessary 
words  of  caution  and  brief  words  expressing 
approval  or  reproof  to  the  animals,  we  made 
the  journey  in  silence  and  in  due  time  reached 
the  bottom,  and  our  feet  told  us  that  we  were 
walking  on  a  level  shale-covered  path. 

At  this  point  the  creatures  leading  us  were 
dismissed  and  we  could  hear  them  scrambling 
back  over  the  trail.  We  heard  the  bleating 
of  sheep,  the  lowing  of  cattle  and  all  the 
multiplicity  of  noises  so  familiar  on  a  well- 
stocked  farm,  and  we  could  easily  detect  the 
different  odors  as  familiar  and  characteristic 
as  the  noises.  We  enjoyed  to  its  fullest 
extent  the  novelty  of  the  homely  sensations 
aroused  by  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay  and 
the  familiar  medley  of  sounds  peculiar  to  the 
farm. 

In  due  time  we  found  ourselves  at  the  foot 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       185 

of  a  couple  of  wooden  steps,  which  we  as 
cended,  and,  crossing  a  broad  veranda,  entered 
a  doorway.  Here  we  stood  awaiting  further 
commands  in  utter  ignorance  of  our  surround 
ings.  Of  course,  we  surmised  we  were  in  the 
ranch  house  which  we  saw  from  the  table  rock^ 
but  this  was  only  a  surmise. 

"Gentlemen/*  said  the  strange  old  man, 
"you  are  welcome  to  my  home,  and  allow  me 
to  add  that  you  are  the  only  white  men  who 
have  ever  crossed  the  threshold  of  this  house." 

As  he  ceased  speaking  he  removed  the 
bandages  from  our  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

It  was  a  strange  place,  indeed,  in  which 
I  found  myself.  Our  eyes  were  unbandaged 
after  we  entered  the  portal  of  the  ranch  house, 
and  when  Big  Pete  and  I  turned  toward  our 
guide,  we  were  facing  in  a  direction  that  gave 
us  a  sweeping  view  of  the  entire  ranch.  And 
what  we  saw  made  us  marvel. 

This  farm,  between  the  towering,  almost 
insurmountable  mountains,  had  evidently 
been  wrenched  from  what  two  decades  before 
had  been  as  much  of  a  wilderness  as  the  Dar- 
linkel  Park  across  the  divide.  Timber  clothed 
the  mountains  on  either  hand  but  the  fertile 
valley  bottom  was  as  rural  as  a  district  of  the 
middle  west.  On  one  hand  stretched  acres 
and  acres  of  ripened  grain.  Beyond  was 
pasture  land  dotted  with  strange  white- 
faced  animals,  which  later  proved  to  be  hybrid 
buffalos,  a  strange  cross  between  wild  and 

186 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        187 

domestic  cattle.1  In  other  pastures  and  on 
the  hillsides  I  could  see  goats  and  sheep,  and 
these  too  were  evidently  a  cross  breed  of  wild 
and  domestic  stock,  the  goats  having  a  very 
strange  resemblance  to  the  fleet-footed  shaggy 
old  fellows  we  had  seen  on  the  mountains, 
while  the  sheep  closely  resembled  usual  domes 
tic  sheep. 

There  were  stables,  too,  and  corrals,  all 
made  of  logs,  as  was  the  ranch  house,  but  what 
seemed  very  strange  to  me  was  the  fact  that 
there  were  no  horses  in  sight.  All  of  the  ani 
mals  at  work  in  the  fields  were  those  strange 
hybrid  buffalo-oxen,  all  save  one,  a  single, 
lame  and  apparently  almost  blind  burro  that 
I  saw  lying  in  the  sun.  From  his  grayness 
about  the  head  I  had  little  doubt  that  he  was 
of  great  age. 

There  were  hordes  of  strange  poultry  too, — 
strange  to  me  at  least,  for  never  had  I  expected 
to  find  flocking  together  wild  turkeys,  Cana- 


1  Since  that  time  the  late  Buffalo  Jones  has  bred  buffalo  and 
domestic  cattle  and  called  the  offspring  "catelow." 


188       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

dian  geese,  black  ducks,  wood  ducks,  and 
mallards  (all  with  wings  clipped  so  that  they 
never  again  could  fly),  sage  hens,  quail, 
spruce-grouse,  partridge,  ptarmigan  and  west 
ern  mountain  quail.  All  seemed  perfectly 
at  home  and  comfortably  domesticated. 

Beyond  the  poultry  houses  was  still  another 
outhouse,  a  long,  low,  log  building  before 
which  was  a  lawn.  On  the  lawn  were  all 
manner  of  perches  and  roosts  and  on  these, 
sunning  themselves  and  preening  their  feath 
ers,  were  several  types  of  predaceous  birds, 
ranging  from  huge  and  powerful  female  eagles 
to  smaller  hawks  and  true  falcons.  This 
evidently  was  the  Wild  Hunter's  falconry. 

Another  thing  that  made  an  instant  im 
pression  upon  me  was  the  number  of  men 
at  work  about  the  place.  The  workmen  were 
all,  without  an  exception,  Indians,  and  as  they 
moved  about  silently,  their  stoic,  almost 
expressionless  faces  held  a  decided  look  of 
contentment,  a  few  of  them  turned  toward  the 
porch  with  a  frank,  honest  stare.  There  was 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       189 

no  evidence  of  fear  or  restraint  in  their  actions 
but  they  always  gave  the  wolf  dogs  plenty 
of  room  as  they  passed  them.  These  black 
beasts  were  ugly,  snarling  things  that  showed 
no  love  for  anyone;  on  the  least  provocation 
menacing  growls  rumbled  in  their  throats. 

What  manner  of  place  was  this  that  we  had 
permitted  ourselves  to  be  led  into?  Indeed, 
what  manner  of  man  was  this  strange  host  of 
ours?  I  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  him  and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  caught  a  strange,  hunted 
look  in  his  eyes,  and  a  sad  smile  on  his  hand 
some  but  grim  countenance.  A  slight  feeling 
of  fear  crept  into  my  heart.  Could  this 
strange  man  be  my  father?  For  some  reason 
he  certainly  did  attract  me  and  excite  my 
sympathy,  yet  I  stood  in  awe  of  him.  The 
strangeness  of  my  surroundings,  too,  settled 
upon  me.  I  turned  toward  Pete  and  I  had  a 
premonition  of  evil.  I  could  see  that  he  too 
was  affected  the  same  way.  The  valley  was 
an  earthly  paradise,  the  Wild  Hunter  a  kindly 
gentleman,  what  then  was  it  that  gave  me  an 


190       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

uncomfortable  and  uneasy  feeling?  I  was 
eager  to  be  alone  with  Pete  for  I  knew  that  he 
would  have  some  interesting  observations  to 
make. 

"I  am  disappointed,  gentlemen,  you  say 
nothing.  Isn't  my  ranch  interesting  to  you?" 
demanded  the  Wild  Hunter,  with  a  smile. 
In  a  low  smooth  voice  he  gave  some  orders  to  a 
young  Indian  who  was  walking  toward  the 
stables.  The  Indian  instantly  snapped  into 
action  and  hurried  away  as  if  one  of  the  black 
wolf  dogs  were  snapping  at  his  heels,  and  I  felt 
certain  that  it  was  the  youth  whom  we  had 
been  trailing. 

A  hurried  and  very  unpleasant  thought 
flashed  through  my  mind:  What  was  the 
source  of  the  power  the  Wild  Hunter  held  over 
these  Indians?  They  were  not  slaves  in  this 
mountain-surrounded  prison;  this  grim,  force 
ful  but  kindly  wild  man  did  not  hold  them 
through  fear.  He  always  smiled  when  he 
greeted  them,  but  he  never  smiled  at  his 
wolves;  when  giving  them  orders  or  even 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        191 

looking  at  them,  the  expression  of  his  face 
was  stern  and  almost  fierce.  But  the  man 
had  asked  a  question.  He  was  expecting  an 
answer. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  place,"  I  managed  to 
stammer;  "who  could  conceive  of  such  a 
remarkable  ranch  buried  here  in  the  heart  of 
the  wilderness?" 

"It's  a  ring-tailed  snorter,  hamstring  me  if 
it  hain't,"  said  Big  Pete  in  an  attempt  to  be 
enthusiastic. 

The  man's  face  glowed  with  pleasure. 

"You  are  the  first  white  men  to  see  it.  I 
think  I  have  achieved  something  here  in  the 
wilds,  thanks  a  great  deal  to  Pluto  and  his 
strain." 

"Eh,  what?"  exclaimed  Big  Pete  in  alarm. 

"To — to — whom,"  I  gasped,  for  to  have  the 
man  actually  confess  an  alliance  with  Satan 
rather  startled  me  also. 

The  Wild  Hunter  chuckled  in  an  amused 
manner. 

"Thanks  to  Pluto,  I  said.     But  Pluto  is 


192       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

that  black  wolf-dog  over  there,  nevertheless. 
I  think  that  the  name  'Pluto*  fits  his  char 
acter  to  a  nicety." 

He  pointed  to  the  massive,  deep-chested, 
long-haired,  long-limbed,  vicious  looking  leader 
of  his  black  wolf  pack  where  it  was  chained  to 
a  post.  The  great  animal  glared  at  his 
master  when  his  name  was  mentioned.  He 
crouched  twenty  feet  away  with  his  slanting 
green  eyes  fixed  constantly  on  his  master's 
face  and  in  them  ever  flared  a  fierce,  wicked 
fire. 

"Yes,  you  son  of  Satan,  you  and  your 
hybrid  whelps  have  helped  me  do  all  this  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  you  hate  me,  and  would 
love  to  tear  me  limb  from  limb.  You  splendid, 
ugly  brute,  you  are  insensible  to  kindness!" 

I  noticed  that  whenever  he  looked  the  wolf 
in  the  face  his  own  countenance  became  grim 
and  his  eyes  exceedingly  fierce  and  not  unlike 
the  wolf  itself  in  expression. 

"He  hates  me,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
us,  "because  of  his  ancestors.  In  him  is  the 


"  I  think  the  name  '  Pluto '  fits  his  character  to  a  nicety 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       193 

blood  of  a  Great  Dane  noted  for  its  strength, 
size  and  ferocity,  a  fierce  brute  which  I  brought 
over  the  mountains  with  me  many  years  ago. 
Pluto's  mother  was  a  pure  black  wolf  of  a 
mean  disposition,  and  his  father  the  half- 
breed  son  of  a  Great  Dane  and  a  she-wolf. 
He  is  the  fiercest  and  most  bloodthirsty  beast 
in  the  whole  pack,  he  hates  me  with  the  intense 
hatred  of  his  wolfish  nature,  he  hates  me  be 
cause  he  knows  that  I  am  the  master  of  the 
pack,  the  real  leader,  and  he  is  jealous. 
Since  his  puppy  days  he  has  watched  for  a 
chance  to  kill  me;  twice  he  nearly  succeeded — 
the  time  will  no  doubt  come  when  it  will  be 
his  life  or  mine.  Yet  because  of  his  wonderful 
strength,  endurance  and  sagacity,  I  could 
almost  love  him. 

"His  breed  does  not  want  to  recognize  any 
master.  But  /  am  his  master!"  cried  the 
Wild  Hunter  as  his  eyes  flashed  and  he  struck 
himself  on  his  chest,  "and  he  knows  it.  The 
only  way,  however,  that  I  keep  my  power 
over  him  and  his  pack  is  by  forcing  myself 


194        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

to  think  every  time  I  speak  to  them,  now  I 
am  going  to  kill  you,  and  brutes  though  they 
are  they  can  read  my  mind  and  fear  me. 
Besides  which  self-interest  helps  a  little  to 
wards  their  loyalty.  With  me  for  a  leader 
there  is  always  a  kill  at  the  end  of  the  hunt, 
and  they  know  that  they  come  in  for  a  share 
of  the  food. 

"Sometimes  I  fear  the  wolves  will  break 
loose  and  attack  my  Indians,  which  I  would 
very  much  regret,  for  the  Redmen  are  faithful 
fellows  and  we  form  a  happy  community. 
The  Indians  look  upon  me  as  Big  Medicine 
because  I  can  control  these  medicine  wolves.'* 

Big  Pete  looked  at  the  man  with  open 
admiration,  a  man  who  by  the  sheer  power 
of  his  will  could  control  a  band  of  wolves, 
any  one  of  which  was  powerful  enough  to  kill 
an  ox,  certainly  was  a  man  to  please  the  wild 
nature  of  Big  Pete.  "But,"  said  Pete,  "you 
say  Pluto  has  helped  you.  How?"  he  asked. 

"How,"  exclaimed  the  Wild  Hunter,  "why, 
gentlemen,  by  governing  the  pack  as  savage 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        195 

as  himself.  The  pack  is  the  secret  of  my 
whole  success;  my  power  over  them  first  won 
the  allegiance  of  the  Indians,  won  their  admira 
tion  and  their  respect.  They  know  that  I 
could  turn  those  wolves  upon  them  at  any 
moment,  but  they  also  know  that  I  would  not 
think  of  doing  such  an  act  and  they  are  human 
and  love  me;  the  wolves  are  brutes  and  not 
susceptible  to  kindness.  The  wolves  hate 
the  Redmen  as  they  hate  me,  but  they  supplied 
us  all  with  food,  they  secured  for  us  our  winter 
meat  while  the  men  worked  to  build  houses 
and  clear  the  land,  and  thus  made  it  possible 
for  us  to  start  this  settlement.  They  even 
acted  as  pack  animals  for  us,  each  of  them 
carrying  as  much  as  seventy  pounds  in  weight 
on  their  backs.  But  be  on  your  guard, 
gentlemen,  be  on  your  guard!  Remember 
that  you  are  strangers  to  the  wolves  and  they 
will  not  hesitate,  if  the  opportunity  offers,  to 
rend  you  and  even  devour  you." 

A  moment  later  his  expression  changed. 

"Enough  of  this,"  he  exclaimed  in  pleasanter 


196       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

tones,  "come,  dinner  is  served/'  and  turning, 
he  led  the  way  through  the  broad  doorway 
of  the  log  ranch  house  into  an  almost  sump 
tuously  furnished  dining  room  where  two 
silent,  soft-footed  Indians  began  immediately 
to  serve  a  truly  remarkable  meal. 

"He  may  be  lo-coed,"  whispered  Pete  to  me 
as  we  took  our  places  at  the  table,  "but  I'll 
tell  the  folks,  he  is  a  master  looney  alright. 
He  knows  how  to  make  Injuns  love  him  and 
varmints  fear  him,  he  kin  pack  all  his  duffle 
in  my  bag,  he  need  not  cough  up  eny  money 
when  he's  with  me.  Reckon  we  be  alright 
here,  but  waugh!  we've  gotter  watch  tha' 
black  wolf  pack! — yes  and  also  that  young 
Indian  whose  ram  you  shot;  it  seems  he  looks 
after  the  wolves  and  sees  to  it  that  they  are 
fastened  up  in  their  corral.  I  wouldn't  want 
him  to  be  sort  of  careless,  you  know." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

What  a  dining  room  that  was!  All  of  logs, 
high  ceilinged,  with  smoked  rafters  stained 
like  an  old  meerschaum  pipe.  It  reminded  me 
of  a  wealthy  man's  hunting  lodge  in  Maine, 
perhaps,  rather  than  the  abode  of  a  wild  man- 
There  was  a  huge  yawning  fireplace  at  one 
end,  above  which  was  the  finest  specimen  of 
an  elk's  head  I  have  ever  seen.  There  were 
other  heads,  too,  prong-horned  antelope, 
beautiful  bison  heads,  remarkable  specimens 
of  bighorn  sheep  and  mountain  goats,  there 
were  buffalo  robes  and  wolf  robes  strewn  over 
the  floor,  and  there  were  abundant  well 
stocked  gun  cases  on  every  hand. 

But  conspicuous  among  the  collection  of 
firearms  was  one,  kept  apart,  polished  and 
cleaned,  and  on  a  rack  made  of  elk  horns 
handily  placed  just  above  the  big  mantle. 
It  was  beautifully  though  not  elaborately 

197 


198       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

made,  with  a  fine  damascus  barrel  of  tremen 
dous  length,  a  lock  and  set  trigger  that 
showed  expert  handicraft,  and  stock  of  beauti 
fully  polished  birds-eye  maple.  An  expert 
would  have  known  immediately  that  it  was  a 
first-water  product  of  an  expert  gunsmith. 

Big  Pete  noticed  it  as  soon  as  I  did  and  he 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  roving  to  it 
occasionally  during  the  meal. 

"You  may  scalp  me,  stranger,  fer  savin'  it, 
but  I'd  like  mightily  well  to  heft  that  tha' 
shooting  iron  o'  your'n  and  examine  it  when 
we  git  through  with  chuck,"  he  said. 

Our  strange  host  looked  up  at  the  rifle,  then 
searchingly  at  Big  Pete. 

"I  don't  mind  showing  it  to  you,  but  you 
must  not  touch  it,"  he  said  finally 

"I  reckon  I  wouldn't  hurt  it  none.  I've 
handled  guns  before,"  said  Big  Pete  shortly, 
and  I  could  see  that  he  was  piqued  at  the 
man's  attitude. 

"Guess  you  wouldn't,  but  I've  made  it  a 
rule  never  to  let  strange  hands  touch  that 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       199 

rifle,"  said  the  strange  man,  and  there  was  a 
grimness  about  his  tone  that  forbade  quibbling. 

"Huh,  well  I  can't  say  as  perhaps  yore  not 
right  about  yore  shootin'  hardware  at  that/' 
said  Pete.  Then  after  glancing  at  it  again, 
he  added, "  a  hunter's  gun  and  a  woodsman's  ax 
should  never  be  trusted  in  strange  hands.  Bet 
a  ten  spot  it's  a  Patrick  Mullen.  Hain't  it?" 

The  name  of  my  kinsman,  the  famous 
gunsmith,  brought  a  sudden  realization  that 
Mullen  was  my  own  family  name 

The  mention  of  the  gunsmith  seemed  also 
to  have  a  curious  effect  on  the  old  man. 
His  face  grew  red  under  the  tan  and  his  brow 
wrinkled  and  I  could  see  his  cold  blue  eyes 
scrutinizing  Big  Pete  closely.  Finally  he 
said  bluntly, 

"It  is,  and  it's  worth  a  thousand  dollars." 

"A  thousand  dollars!"  I  exclaimed,  "a 
thousand  dollars?" 

:<Yes,"  cried  the  old  man  almost  fiercely^ 
"yes,  yes,  and  it  is  my  gun.  He  gave  it  to 
me,  he  did — to  me  and  not  to  Donald.  He — '* 


200       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

He  stood  up  suddenly  as  if  he  intended  to 
stride  over  and  seize  the  gun,  to  protect  it  from 
us  but  as  quickly  sat  down  again  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  see  him  biting 
his  lips  as  if  he  were  attempting  to  control  his 
feeling. 

As  for  me,  quite  suddenly  a  great  light 
seemed  to  dawn.  This  strange  old  man  was 
mentioning  names  that  were  familiar — that 
meant  worlds  to  me.  I  leaned  toward  him 
eagerly.  Big  Pete  stood  quietly  listening,  a 
silent  but  interested  spectator. 

"Did  you  know  Donald  Mullen,  a  brother 
to  the  famous  gunsmith?  Tell  me,  did  you 
know  him?  I  have  come  all  the  way — " 

I  stopped  in  wonder.  Never  in  all  my  life 
do  I  ever  expect  to  witness  such  a  pitiful 
expression  of  anguish  pictured  so  vividly  on 
the  human  countenance  as  it  was  on  the  face 
of  the  Wild  Hunter. 

"What,"  he  whispered,  "did  you  know 
him?" 

"He  was  my  father,"  I  answered  simply. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack        201 

For  a  moment  the  Wild  Hunter  looked  at 
me  intently,  then  said,  "I  believe  you,  you 
favor  him  somewhat."  He  then  came  for 
ward  as  ifK  to  shake  my  hand,  but  changed 
his  mind  and  sat  down  with  a  forced  and 
wan  smile. 

"Did  I  know  Don  Mullen?  Did  I?  He 
was  my  partner,  my  bunkee  for  many  years 
and  on  many  prospecting  trips,  a  better 
bunkee  no  man  ever  had,  but  he  is  dead  now* 
dead !  dead !  dead !  been  dead  for  a  dozen  years' 
He  was  killed  by  an  avalanche.  A  better 
partner  no  man  ever  had,"  he  murmured  and 
relaxed  into  silence. 

My  efforts  to  get  more  information  of  my 
parents  were  of  no  avail.  The  Wild  Hunter 
turned  the  conversation  in  other  directions. 

Of  course,  the  knowledge  that  my  real 
father  was  dead,  had  been  dead  a  long  time, 
caused  me  a  feeling  of  sadness,  yet  strangely 
enough  the  little  knowledge  that  I  had  gleaned 
from  this  strange  old  man  brought  a  sense  of 
relief  to  me.  I  think  that  it  must  have  been 


202       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

a  certain  sense  of  satisfaction  to  know  that 
this  queer  man  was  not  my  father. 

But  if  he  was  not  Donald  Mullen,  who  was 
he?  That  question  kept  me  pondering  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  meal  I  was  silent,  speculating 
on  this  strange  situation,  nor  did  I  have  an 
opportunity  to  note,  as  Big  Pete  did,  the 
tearful,  kindly  glances  that  the  Wild  Hunter 
shot  at  me  now  and  then. 

Still,  for  all,  he  was  sociable,  extremely 
sociable,  and  talkative,  too,  but  I  fancy  now 
as  I  recall  it,  he  was  simply  keeping  the  con 
versation  in  safe  channels,  for  it  was  very 
apparent  that  the  rifle  and  his  former  mining 
partner  were  painful  subjects. 

Dinner  over,  we  all  went  out  onto  the  porch 
of  the  ranch  house,  where  we  talked  while 
the  twilight  lasted.  At  least  Big  Pete  and  the 
Wild  Hunter  talked  as  they  smoked  two  ot 
those  mysterious  long  cigars,  but  I  was  still 
silent  because  of  the  many  strange  thoughts 
that  were  romping  through  my  mind. 

Soon  darkness  settled  down  and  Big  Pete 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       203 

began  to  yawn.  I  also  was  heavy-eyed,  and 
presently  the  Wild  Hunter  clapped  his  hands 
and  summoned  a  leather-skinned  old  Indian 
to  whom  he  gave  brief  low  command  in  the 
Mewan  Indian  tongue,  as  I  was  afterwards 
informed  by  Big  Pete,  then  turning  to  us  he 
said  in  his  fascinating  soft  voice: 

"It  will  probably  be  a  novelty  for  both  of 
you  gentlemen  to  again  sleep  in  a  bed  between 
sheets  and  under  a  roof.  I  doubt  whether  you 
will  enjoy  it  even  though  the  sheets  are  clean 
linen  which  were  spun  and  woven  by  my  noble 
Indians.  Moose  Ear,  here,  will  conduct  you 
to  your  rooms  and  I  will  take  a  turn  about 
the  place  before  retiring  to  see  that  all  is  well, 
and  also  to  see  that  my  black  wolf  pack  is 
securely  confined  within  the  wolf  corral.  This 
is  a  precaution,  gentlemen,  which  I  take  every 
night,  because  a  wolf  is  a  wolf  no  matter 
how  well  trained  he  may  be  upon  the  surface, 
and  night  is  the  time  wolves  delight  to  run. 
These  beasts  are  especially  dangerous  to 
strangers  and  it  is  for  that  reason  I  am  putting 


204       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

you  in  the  house  in  place  of  allowing  you  to 
camp  outdoors,  as  I  know  you  would  prefer  to 
do.  Good-night,  gentlemen,  see  that  the 
doors  are  closed.  Pleasant  dreams." 

As  we  said  good-night  to  him  I  wondered 
vaguely  if  the  wolf  pen  was  securely  built,  for 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  detected  a  suggestion 
of  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  Wild  Hunter 
himself.  I  little  realized,  however,  the  horrors 
the  darkness  had  in  store  for  us. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Moose  Ear,  the  silent,  wrinkled  old  Indian, 
with  lighted  candles  made  of  buffalo  tallow, 
guided  Big  Pete  and  me  up  the  broad 
skilfully  built  puncheon  stairway  to  the  upper 
story  of  the  surprisingly  large  ranch  house, 
where  he  showed  us  to  our  rooms,  rooms 
which  were  a  joy  to  look  upon.  Each  was 
furnished  with  a  heavy,  hand-made  four- 
posted  bedstead,  which  in  spite  of  the  massive- 
ness  was  beautifully  made,  and  I  wondered 
at  the  patience  of  the  Wild  Hunter  in  teaching 
the  Indians  their  craftmanship. 

The  other  furniture  in  the  room  was  also 
hand  wrought,  as  were  the  fiber  rugs  on  the 
floor  and  the  checked  homespun  blankets  on 
the  beds.  There  was  a  harmonious  and 
pleasing  effect;  the  rooms  were  cheerful, 
abounding  in  evidences  of  Indian  handicraft. 
Beadwork  and  embroidery  of  dyed  porcupine 

205 


206       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

quills  were  prevalent,  even  the  tester  which 
roofed  the  four-post  bedstead  was  ornamented 
with  fringes  of  buckskin  and  designs  made  of 
beads  and  porcupine  quills.  The  chairs  and 
floors  were  plentifully  supplied  with  fur  rugs, 
and  the  quaint,  old-fashioned  appearance  of 
the  room  in  nowise  detracted  from  its  comfort 
or  even  luxury. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  uncomfortable 
thought  of  that  pack  of  black  wolves  outside, 
I  am  sure  I  would  have  been  supremely  happy 
at  the  prospect  of  once  more  spending  a  night 
between  clean  and  cool  sheets  and  a  real 
feather  pillow  on  which  to  rest  my  head. 
Eagerly  and  almost  excitedly  I  threw  off  my 
clothes  and  donned  the  long,  linen  nightshirt 
with  which  old  Moose  Ear  had  provided  me. 
Then  I  put  the  buckhorn  extinguisher  over 
the  candle  and  dove  into  the  feather  bed  as 
gleefully  as  a  child  on  Christmas  Eve. 

I  expected  to  immediately  fall  asleep,  but 
there  is  where  I  made  a  mistake;  my  mind 
would  not  cease  working,  the  wheels  in  my 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       207 

head  kept  buzzing  and  would  not  stop.  I  was 
as  wide  awake  as  a  codfish;  the  bed  was  com 
fortable,  too  comfortable,  but  tired  though  I 
was  I  felt  no  inclination  to  sleep.  I  thought 
it  was  the  strangeness  of  my  surroundings 
which  kept  me  tossing  from  side  to  side,  but 
I  soon  realized  that  the  trouble  was  to  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  for  months  I  had  only 
had  the  sky  for  my  roof,  never  using  our  tents 
or  open  faced  shack  except  in  bad  weather; 
but  here,  the  ornamented  tester  of  the  bed 
and  the  ceiling  itself  seemed  to  be  resting  on 
my  chest;  in  spite  of  the  wide  open  windows 
the  room  seemed  stuffy  and  oppressive.  I  felt 
as  if  I  would  suffocate. 

Twice  I  got  up  and  sat  by  the  open  window 
and  gazed  out  at  the  black  landscape.  The 
sky  was  cloudy  and  there  were  no  stars;  this 
combined  with  the  pine  trees  about  the 
ranch  house  made  the  darkness  so  black  and 
thick  that  it  seemed  as  if  one  might  cut  it  in 
chunks,  with  a  knife.  The  air  felt  good  to 
breathe  but  I  did  not  propose  to  sit  by  the 


208       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

window  all  night  so  at  last  I  arose,  put  mocca 
sins  on  my  feet  and,  taking  my  blankets  with 
me,  stole  stealthily  down  the  stairs,  opened 
the  front  door  and  made  my  bed  on  the  floor 
of  the  broad  piazza.  I  had  not  forgotten 
the  warning  to  keep  indoors,  but  I  thought  I 
would  rather  risk  the  wolves  than  to  smother 
all  night. 

In  the  darkness  I  discovered  another  occu 
pant  of  the  piazza  also  rolled  up  in  a  blanket 
taken  from  a  bed  in  the  house.  Feeling  with 
my  hands  I  discovered  that  it  was  Big  Pete. 
Comfortably  settling  myself  in  my  blanket  I 
felt  the  breeze  from  the  mountain  blowing 
over  my  face  and  through  my  hair,  and  it 
soothed  me  until  I  dropped  off  into  gentle 
slumber;  but  during  the  months  I  had  been 
sleeping  in  the  open  I  had  learned  the  art,  as 
the  saying  is,  of  sleeping  with  one  eye  open. 
In  this  case,  however,  if  the  eye  had  really 
been  wide  open  it  could  have  seen  nothing 
because  of  the  darkness,  but  the  darkness 
did  not  interfere  with  my  ability  to  hear,  and 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       209 

after  I  had  been  sleeping  awhile  I  found 
myself  suddenly  sitting  bolt  upright  in  my 
blankets  with  beads  of  perspiration  on  my 
forehead  and  that  terrible  sensation  of  horror 
which  one  experiences  in  a  nightmare.  I 
knew  that  I  had  heard  something,  but  what? 

The  oppressive  silence  of  the  wilderness 
made  the  valley  appear  as  if  Nature  was 
holding  her  breath  for  a  moment  before  giving 
voice  to  an  explosion  of  sound.  I  sensed 
impending  disaster  of  some  sort.  What  it 
was  I  could  not  guess,  but  was  convinced  that 
something  was  about  to  happen. 

As  I  held  my  breath  and  listened,  the  ranch 
house  was  silent;  even  Pete  had  not,  appar 
ently,  awakened,  but  I  could  not  hear  his  reg 
ular  breathing.  Now  I  thought  I  could  detect 
a  soft  and  very  faint  noise  as  of  some  large 
body  creeping  over  the  puncheon  steps.  I  also 
imagined  I  detected  the  noise  of  padded 
feet  and  the  scraping  noise  of  claws  on  the 
wood.  A  shudder  ran  through  me.  Was  a 
panther,  a  mountain  lion,  about  to  spring 


210       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

upon  me?  No,  I  abandoned  the  thought 
and  instinctively  I  knew  that  it  must  be  one 
of  the  black  wolf  pack.  Then  I  remembered 
hearing  the  cracking  and  breaking  of  sticks 
or  timber  while  I  was  trying  to  sleep  in  the 
bedroom,  and  I  felt  that  Pluto  had  broken  out 
of  the  pen  and  was  creeping  up  on  us  slowly 
and  stealthily  as  I  have  seen  a  fox  creep  up  on 
a  covey  of  quail. 

Would  the  beast  presently  hurl  its  terrible 
form  upon  me,  or  on  Big  Pete?  I  attempted 
to  warn  my  friend,  but  my  tongue  clung  to 
the  roof  of  my  mouth  and  for  the  moment  I 
was  powerless  and  speechless,  subdued  by  a 
combination  of  fear  of  the  real  beast  and 
superstitious  fear  of  the  fabulous  werwolf 
or  loup-garou,*  but  the  next  moment  I  pulled 
myself  together,  mastered  my  trembling  limbs, 
rolled  softly  out  of  my  blankets,  and  gun  in 
hand  wormed  my  way  toward  the  spot  where 
Big  Pete  lay,  determined  to  sell  my  life 


JA  werwolf,  or  loup-garou,  is  a  legendary  man  who,  it  was  formerly 
believed,  could  at  will  take  on  the  form  and  nature  of  a  wolf. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       211 

dearly.  With  Big  Pete  beside  me,  now  that 
I  was  thoroughly  awake,  I  would  fight  all 
the  werwolves  of  the  old  world  and  all  the 
loup-garous  of  Canada.  I  reached  out  and 
felt  for  Pete  but  he  was  not  there,  the  blankets 
were  empty;  once  or  twice  I  thought  I  de 
tected  the  glint  of  the  wolves'  eyes,  but  the 
night  was  very  dark  and  in  the  shadow  of 
the  roof  I  could  really  see  nothing. 

Closer  and  closer  sounded  the  stealthy, 
dragging  noise,  and  I  heard  a  hand  feel  softly 
for  the  latch  of  the  front  door  and  could  hear 
fingers  scraping  ever  so  softly  over  the  wood 
surface  of  the  other  side.  A  slight  rattle 
told  me  that  the  hand  had  found  the  latch 
and  that  presently  the  door  would  be  flung 
open.  With  my  revolver  ready  I  waited 
developments  and  braced  myself  for  the 
attack. 

The  door  flew  open  wide,  and  the  voice  of 
the  Wild  Hunter  cried, 

"Pluto,  you  fiend,  down!  down!  I  say!" 

But  this  time  the  huge  brute  did  not  obey 


212        The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

and  the  command  was  answered  by  a  low 
rebellious  growl,  a  scratching  of  feet  on  the 
puncheons,  and  a  heavy  thud  of  someone 
falling  told  me  that  the  final  struggle  for  the 
leadership  of  the  black  wolf  pack  had  begun. 

Then  burst  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night 
such  an  uproar  that  for  a  moment  I  thought 
the  whole  pack  was  mixed  in  the  fight,  but 
at  length  I  heard  Pluto's  snarling,  rumbling 
growl,  answered  by  the  distant  howl  of  the 
wolf  pack,  followed  immediately  by  a  close-by 
yell  that  chilled  my  blood;  after  this  came 
Big  Pete's  war  cry,  then  the  crash  of  falling 
objects,  shrieks  and  growls  and  savage  yells. 

I  had  flung  myself  forward,  and  there  in  the 
pitch  darkness  of  the  doorway  of  the  hall  I 
felt  and  heard  rather  than  saw  the  lean  twist 
ing  bodies  of  the  Wild  Hunter  and  Pluto 
clasped  in  a  life  and  death  struggle  on  the 
floor.  I  feared  to  use  my  revolver,  as  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  tell  whether  I  was 
shooting  the  hunter  or  the  wolf. 

Suddenly   a   light   burst   upon   the   scene. 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       213 

Big  Pete's  absence  was  explained;  he  had 
secured  a  lantern  and  holding  it  aloft  with  his 
left  hand,  with  a  six-shooter  in  his  right,  he 
paused  a  moment  over  the  struggling  figures. 
By  the  light  of  the  lantern  one  could  see  that 
the  Wild  Hunter  was  on  his  back  struggling 
with  the  giant  beast  which  he  was  trying  to 
choke  with  his  two  hands,  while  the  wolf's 
teeth  were  seeking  the  throat  of  the  man.  It 
was  a  terrible  scene  but  it  was  no  time  to  waste 
in  horror.  The  efforts  of  the  hunter  to  free 
himself  from  his  terrible  assailant  would  have 
been  of  little  avail  but  for  the  assistance 
of  Big  Pete,  for  the  wolf  was  shaking  the  wild 
man  from  side  to  side  with  terrific  force? 
very  much  the  same  as  a  bull-terrier  might 
shake  a  cat. 

Pete  wasted  no  time  but  placing  the  muzzle 
of  his  gun  against  the  wolfs  head  he  fired^ 
then  shouted  to  me,  "Look  behind  you." 

As  I  wheeled  about  I  found  that  I  was  facing 
the  rest  of  the  pack.  Pluto  reared  upon  his 
hind  legs,  clawed  the  air  frantically  in  his 


214       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

death  struggle,  and  fell  with  a  thud  across 
his  master's  body,  but  Pete  and  I  were  now 
concentrating  our  fire  on  the  snarling,  leaping 
bodies  of  the  wolf  pack.  Fortunately  the 
death  of  Pluto  and  the  silence  of  the  Wild 
Hunter  seemed  to  discourage  the  pack,  they 
evidently  missed  their  leaders  and  this  gave 
us  the  advantage,  for  if  they  had  rushed  us  we 
undoubtedly  would  have  fallen  victims  to 
their  savage  teeth. 

In  the  melee  the  lantern  was  upset  and  the 
struggle  ended  in  darkness  as  it  began,  but 
when  things  quieted  down  and  Pete  relit  the 
lantern  there  were  only  two  wolves  which 
were  alive  and  they  were  fiercely  attacking 
each  other.  We  soon  dispatched  them,  how 
ever,  and  then  devoted  our  attention  to  the 
Wild  Hunter  over  whose  body  Big  Pete  was 
now  bending. 

"By  the  great  horn  spoon,  Le-loo!"  cried 
he,  looking  up  for  a  moment,  "  we've  wiped  out 
the  pack,  and  now  that  the  scrap  is  over  here 
comes  the  Injuns.  I  calculate  our  friend  here 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       215 

is  a  dead  one;  Pluto  has  chewed  him  to  pieces. 
Come,  lend  a  hand  and  we  will  see  what  we 
can  do  for  the  poor  old  man ;  he  certainly  did 
put  up  a  glorious  fight." 

Reaching  down  I  gathered  the  old  man's 
legs  in  my  arms,  and  with  Big  Pete  supporting 
his  head  and  shoulders,  we  carried  him  into 
my  room  and  laid  him  on  the  feather  bed 
under  the  savagely  ornamented  tester. 

Big  Pete  was  all  action  then,  and  I  helped 
as  best  I  could.  The  Scout  ripped  one  of  the 
homespun  sheets  into  ribbons  and  with  these 
made  bandages  and  proceeded  to  stay  the 
flow  of  blood  from  the  old  man's  lacerated 
throat.  He  worked  hard  and  long  and  now 
and  then  he  would  shake  his  head  dubiously. 
Presently  he  muttered,  '  'Taint  much  use, 
Ol'  Timer,  I  guess  yore  a  goner.  Yore  goneta 
pass  over  t'  Divide  this  time,  I  guess.  That 
tha'  Pluto  fiend  done  chewed  you  up  fer 
further  orders." 

At  this  the  old  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  a 
grim  smile  wrinkled  his  now  ashen  face 


216       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 


ti 


I  knew  he'd  do  it  some  day,  and  I  think 
he  got  me  this  time.  The  Mewan  Indians 
call  the  giant  wolf  "Too-le-ze"  and  that  is  also 
the  name  they  gave  me,  but  I  am  not  a  wer 
wolf,  a  loup-garou  or  a  Too-le-ze.  I  was  only 
their  master  but  now  their  victim. 

"I  feared  that  Pluto,  as  I  call  him,  or  Too- 
le-ze,  was  strong  and  treacherous  and  that 
is  why  I  ruled  him  with  an  iron  hand.  He's 
got  me  this  time.  I  guess  it  had  to  end  this 
way — give  me  a  cup  of  water." 

He  then  fixed  his  gaze  on  me  and  I  noticed 
that  he  no  longer  had  that  worried,  haunted 
look  which  had  heretofore  characterized  him. 

"So  you  are  Donald's  son — well,  when  I 
heard  Pluto  stalking  you  I  knew  that  it  was 
you  or  your  uncle  that  the  beast  would  get; 
it  was  fate  that  made  me  slip  and  fall,  and 
once  down  the  wolf  saw  his  long-looked-for 
opportunity  and  instantly  availed  himself  of  it. 
But  the  good  Lord  was  not  going  to  allow  me 
to  bring  bad  luck  to  both  you  and  your  father, 
boy.  Yes,  I  am  Fay  Mullen  and  I  caused 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       217 

the  death  of  your  father,  and  my  brother. 
I  bear  the  brand  of  Cain. 

c'We  were  crossing  a  steep  bank  of  snow  at 
the  foot  of  a  cliff,  and  being  both  tired  and 
hungry  we  were  bickering  and  quarreling  over 
nothing.  I  should  have  remembered  that 
your  father  was  but  just  recovering  from  an 
attack  of  nervous  prostration,  but  I  did  not; 
we  had  been  months  in  the  mountains  pros 
pecting  and  the  unprofitable  toil  and  loneliness 
must  have  got  on  my  nerves.  At  any  rate, 
after  some  hot,  unbrotherly  language,  we 
agreed  to  part  company. 

"We  sat  down  on  the  snow  and  divided  our 
outfit  by  lot.  I  got  the  flintlock  Patrick 
Mullen,  the  fierce  Great  Dane  and  the  gentle 
little  donkey;  your  father  got  the  packhorse 
and  the  Winchester  rifle. 

"We — we — parted  without  saying  good-bye, 
and  just  then  an  elk  came  out  on  the  snow 
bank.  Instantly  your  father  fired  and  I  fired, 
the  elk  fell,  but  the  simultaneous  concussion 
of  the  reports  of  the  two  rifles  started  the 


218       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

snow  to  moving.  The  Great  Dane  and  the 
donkey  sensed  the  danger  and  fled  to  the 
right.  I  turned  to  warn  your  father  and 
motioned  him  back,  but  he  came  on  a  run 
toward  me  and  I  fled  at  the  heels  of  my  outfit. 
The  burro  and  dog  escaped  to  safety,  I  was 
caught  in  the  edge  of  the  slide,  knocked  uncon 
scious  and  buried  in  snow,  from  which  the 
dog  rescued  me. 

"A  fragment  of  stone  struck  me  on  the  head 
and  I  have  never  been  the  same  since  then. 
Your  father  and  his  outfit  are  buried  under 
five  hundred  feet  of  snow  and  rocks.  I  camped 
nearby  for  days  but  could  find  no  trace  of  my 
brother  and  all  the  time  a  voice  seemed  to  cry, 
"You  killed  your  brother;  you  are  marked 
with  the  brand  of  Cain. 

"This  thought  has  haunted  me  night  and  day 
and  I  have  never  quarreled  with  a  man  since 
then;  for  fear  that  I  might  do  so,  I  have 
avoided  white  men  ever  since  and  buried 
myself  in  these  mountains.  I  found  this 
valley  and  I  hid  here  and  with  the  aid  of  the 


The  Black  Wolf  Pack       219 

Great  Dane  and  the  wolf  dogs  I  bred,  as 
beasts  of  burden,  I  built  this  ranch.  I — I — 
was  afraid — all  the  time,  though — afraid  some 
one  would — find  out  about — Donald's  death 
and  blame  it  on  me.  When  you — said — you — 
were — Donald's  son  I  was  frightened — I 
thought  you'd  come  to  get  me — for  killing 
your — father  and — I — I — I  was  going  to  kill 
myself.  But  Pluto  got — me — and  saved  me 
from  further  guilt.  I — " 

He  said  more,  but  neither  Big  Pete  nor  I 
could  understand  him.  Indeed,  he  kept  mum 
bling  incoherently  for  an  hour  or  more  while 
we  watched  over  him  and  did  all  that  we  could 
to  make  him  comfortable  until  the  death 
rattle  in  his  throat  put  an  end  to  his  mumbling. 
But  despite  our  efforts,  he  passed  on  at  dawn. 
Just  as  the  first  warm  light  of  the  sun  glowed 
above  the  mountains,  he  breathed  his  last. 

Now  you  know  why  my  private  den  is  just 
cram  full  of  the  things  you  fellows  like.  You 
may  also  guess  where  I  procured  the  black 


220       The  Black  Wolf  Pack 

wolfskin  rugs  and  the  rare  bead  and  por 
cupine  quill  decorations.  Yes,  that  long- 
barrelled  rifle  hanging  on  the  buckhorn  rack 
is  the  famous  Patrick  Mullen  gun.  It  is  a 
rifle  that  Washington,  Boone  or  Crocket  would 
have  almost  given  their  scalps  to  possess, 
because  it  is  the  same  pattern  as  the  ones 
they  themselves  used  but  more  scientifically 
and  skillfully  made.  It's  a  flintlock,  too,  and 
that  is  the  funny  part  about  it  that  interests 
all  the  Scouts  of  our  Troop.  It  is  my  good- 
turn  mascot,  for  as  long  as  it  hangs  there  I  am 
under  the  influence  of  my  wild  uncle  and  can 
quarrel  with  no  man. 

Now  you  know  why  the  gun  is  preserved 
as  a  trophy  for  my  old  Scouts  and  is  an  object 
of  veneration  upon  which  they  love  to  gaze 
when  they  sit  cross-legged  on  the  skins  of  the 
black  wolf  pack  before  the  crackling  fire  of 
their  Scoutmaster's  private  den. 

Big  Pete?  Oh,  he  now  runs  the  Pluto 
Ranch  in  Paradise  Valley. 


THE  BEARD  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

DAN  C.  BEARD 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY'S  HANDY  BOOK.    Or,  What 

tO  Do  and  How  to  Do  It  Illustrated  by  the  author 

Gives  sports  adapted  to  all  seasons  of  the  year,  tells  boys  how  to  make  all 
kinds  of  things  —  boats,  traps,  toys,  puzzles,  aquariums,  nshing-tackle;  how 
to  tie  knots,  splice  ropes,  to  make  bird  calls,  sleds,  blow-guns,  balloons;  how 
to  rear  wild  birds,  to  train  dogs,  and  do  the  thousand  and  one  things  that 
boys  take  delight  in. 

THE  OUTDOOR  HANDY  BOOK.     For  Playground, 

Field,  and  Forest  Illustrated  by  the  author 

"How  to  play  all  sorts  of  games  with  marbles,  how  to  make  and  spin  more 
kinds  of  tops  than  most  boys  ever  heard  of,  how  to  make  the  latest  things 
in  plain  and  fancy  kites,  where  to  dig  bait  and  how  to  fish,  all  about  boats 
and  sailing,  and  a  host  of  other  things  ...  an  unmixed  delight  to  any 
boy."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

THE  FIELD  AND  FOREST  HANDY  BOOK.    Or,  New 

Ideas  for  Out  of  Doors  Illustrated  by  the  author 

"Instructions  as  to  ways  to  build  boats  and  fire-engines,  make  aquariums, 
rafts,  and  sleds,  to  camp  in  a  back-yard,  etc.  No  better  book  of  the  kind  ex 
ists."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

SHELTERS,  SHACKS,  AND  SHANTIES 

Illustrated  by  the  author 

Easily  workable  directions,  accompanied  by  very  full  illustration,  for  over 

fifty  shelters,  shacks,  and  shanties. 

BOAT-BUILDING  AND  BOATING.    A  Handy  Book 

for  Beginners  Illustrated  by  the  author 

All  that  Dan  Beard  knows  and  has  written  about  the  building  of  every  sim 
ple  kind  of  boat,  from  a  raft  to  a  cheap  motor-boat,  is  brought  together  in 
this  book. 

THE  JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES.     Or,  New  Ideas  for 

American  Boys  Illustrated  by  the  author 

"This  book  is  a  capital  one  to  give  any  boy  for  a  present  at  Christmas,  on 
a  birthday,  or  indeed  at  any  time."  —  The  Outlook. 

THE  BOY  PIONEERS.     Sons  of  Daniel  Boone 

Illustrated  by  the  author 

"How  to  become  a  member  of  the  'Sons  of  Daniel  Boone'  and  take  part  in 
all  the  old  pioneer  games,  and  many  other  things  in  which  boys  are  inter 
ested."—  Philadelphia  Press. 

THE  BLACK  WOLF-PACK 

"A  genuine  thriller  of  mystery  and  red-blooded  conflicts,  well  calculated  to 
bold  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  its  boy  and,  for  that  matter,  its  adult 
reader."  —  Philadelphia  North  American. 


THE  BEARD  BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS 

LINA  BEARD  and  ADELIA  B.  BEARD 


THE  AMERICAN  GIRL'S  HANDY  BOOK.    How  to 

Amuse  Yourself  and  Others 

With  nearly  500  illustrations 

"It  is  a  treasure  which,  once  possessed,  no  practical  girl  would  will 

ingly  part  with."  —  GRACE  GREENWOOD. 

THINGS  WORTH  DOING  AND  HOW  TO  DO  THEM 

With  some  600  drawings  by  the  authors  that  show  exactly  how  they  should 
be  done 

"The  book  will  tell  you  how  to  do  nearly  anything  that  any  live  girl 
really  wants  to  do."  —  The  World  To-day. 

HANDICRAFT  AND  RECREATION  FOR  GIRLS 

With  over  700  illustrations  by  the  authors 

"It  teaches  how  to  make  serviceable  and  useful  things  of  all  kinds 
out  of  every  kind  of  material.  It  also  tells  how  to  play  and  how  to 
make  things  to  play  with."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

WHAT  A  GIRL  CAN  MAKE  AND  DO.    New  Ideas 

for  Work  and  Play 

With  more  than  300  illustrations  by  the  authors 

"It  would  be  a  dull  girl  who  could  not  make  herself  busy  and  happy 
following  its  precepts.  ...  A  most  inspiring  book  for  an  active- 
minded  girl."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

ON  THE  TRAIL 

Illustrated  by  the  authors 

This  volume  tells  how  a  girl  can  live  outdoors,  camping  in  the  woods, 

and  learning  to  know  its  wild  inhabitants. 

MOTHER  NATURE'S  TOY  SHOP 

Profusely  illustrated  by  the  authors 

How  children  can  make  toys  easily  and  economically  from  wild 

flowers,  grasses,  green  leaves,  seed-vessels,  fruits,  etc. 

LITTLE  FOLKS'  HANDY  BOOK 

With  many  illustrations 

Contains  a  wealth  of  devices  for  entertaining  children  by  means  of 
paper  building-cards,  wooden  berry-baskets,  straw  and  paper  furni 
ture,  paper  jewelry,  etc. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK 


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